Returns
by HRFan
Summary: This is a Harry and Ruth fanfic - my first one.....fluffy and angsty. THAnks for reading it!
1. Chapter 1

8

**Returns.**

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE CHARACTERS. BBC AND KUDOS DO.**

**1.**

'There will always be something else, Ruth.' He says it quietly, leaving her in no uncertainty as to what he means. She does not look at him. 'We should get back to work', she says finally, turned away from him.

He gets up, slowly, trying not to let his frustration show. You've got no right to expect anything from her, he tells himself. Her partner died, she lost her step-son, and all of this because of you, the service…just be content that she is here, that you can see her every day…

And yet, he can't be content. To have her back in his life, so unexpectedly, after three long years…nothing could have prepared him for this, for that moment when he would see her again….

She has changed. She's no longer the young, naïve woman he once knew – yes, she _was_ naïve back then, in an endearing way. She no longer looks up to him the way she used to – 'coker spaniel', Juliet once said. Cruel, but with a grain of truth. These days, she looks _at _him, and he can no longer read her. She says that she is not angry with him for what happened. He does not believe her. How could he? He would have let the child die had it come to that. He knows it, and so does she. How could she ever forgive him?

He shakes himself. Come on, Harry. One day at a time. For now, enjoy seeing her every day, talking to her, watching her…. Her wide blue eyes….she is not beautiful, not in a conventional, Sarah-Crawley kind of way. And yet, he wants her more than he has wanted anyone in his life. He loves the way her smile lights up her face, he loves….

The day goes on, a blur of activity as usual. Lucas' fragility, Ros' decisiveness. Tariq showing his mettle. He fobs Ruth off for her theories about Malcolm's contact, feels annoyed at himself for it, makes up for it later….and all the time, thinking that he would give anything for getting her alone, away from the office, to try, one last time, to get through to her.

But she has left the office, for her new, bland, rented, anonymous flat, curtesy of the service, and it's too late. For yet another day, it's too late.

And then, suddenly, he's got an idea. How did I not think of it earlier, he asks himself…

**2.**

She is walking like an automaton, oblivious to the cold autumn rain lashing her face and seeping into her clothes. The emotional battle which she has been fighting since her return, and her grief at the loss of her partner and step-son is leaving her exhausted and drained of all energy. She never imagined, in Cyprus, that she would ever be back in London. That she would see him again. Until she was dragged into that room, laying eyes on him – looking older, more tired than she remembered, the years of hard work and burdensome secrets etched on his face….finding herself unable to say 'yes' to the question he threw at her, like a gauntlet: 'did you love him?'

I'm glad I did not betray George in that way, she tells herself, by talking about us, our relationship, to Harry. Harry, whom I still love, who makes me so angry, who so obviously wants to talk about us….I _don't_ want to talk about us, I don't want ever to feel vulnerable, to open up to someone, to him, only to lose him ….

And yet…she cannot deny – for she is a basically honest, and decent, person – the thrill she feels, every day, at the idea of seeing him. Of working close to him. Of being told that only she, and no one else, is in his confidence. She feels the thrill, and hates herself for it.

She closes her eyes, and rests her forehead wearily on the cold glass window as the bus slowly truddges along Picadilly. Another long, lonely, difficult evening, filled with grief, trying and failing to get through Nico, missing him more than she would have thought possible. I love him like a son, she tells herself, and now I will never have a child, it's too late…

She gets off the bus, it's darker still, she has to make herself put one foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other, Ruth, she tells herself bleakly. That's how it has got to be. One foot in front of the other.

She is about to insert her key in her front door, when a shadow looms next to her, holding something in their hand. She starts. She stammers, 'What…what are you doing here?'

**3.**

'Your cats', he says simply.

She doesn't understand. 'What?'

'Your cats…when you left. Three years ago. You asked me to look after them.'

Three years ago. A lifetime ago. Before she can say anything, he adds, hurriedly, 'you've never asked since you got back….other things on your mind obviously.' He trails off. Of all the stupid things to say, he tells himself furiously. 'Well, I thought you might like to have them back.'

She looks down, and realises that he is holding a cat carrier. And she hears the shuffling, the tentative meowing. She knows she should say something, anything, but she can't, her mind is utterly blank. 'Ruth'. Softly, this time, very gently. ' Do you want them back? Because if you don't that's fine, I can keep them, but I thought….'

'I've got no food for them', she says, inanely.'Or a tray or…'

He allows himself the tiniest of smiles. 'It's OK. I had my driver pick up some stuff on the way.'

'Your driver. Ah yes. Yes.' Of course. He is _Sir_ Harry, and she is plain dowdy Ruth Evershed, just returned from the dead, with not much in her life really but a drab, uninviting place, the job which has cost her so many friends, and an ever loosening grip on a little boy whom she loves and who, she knows, will soon forget her.

And it occurrs to her that she really ought to let him in, the cats are meowing furiously now, the rain is falling more heavily. She opens the door, busies herself switching the lights on, shedding her coat, showing him in, half ashamed of what the flat says about her. 'It's very nice of you', she says lamely as she opens the carrier. The cats emerge, tentatively, their fur is shiny, they have put on some weight. He's obviously looked after them well. His housekeeper, rather, she can't help thinking, unfairly.

She watches him from the corner of her eyes, as she makes some tea. He is taking in his surroundings, the non descript decor, the soullessness of the layout, the standard framed photos of London…

There is another reason why he is here tonight. A new development, after a long phone conversation he had with the Home Secretary. 'Ruth'.

She looks up, and back down on the teapot quiclly. 'Yes?'

'I didn't come only for the cats. But also to tell you that….' His words desert him. Is she going to get angry with him again for his attempts at helping her? He takes a deep breath. 'The Home Secretary asked me to tell you that the Government will compensate you for everything.' Color rises up her cheeks, but he pre-empts her outburst. 'Not everything. I did not mean that. I know that losing George, and Nico…'

He pulls out an envelope from his breast pocket. 'Harry….' Her tone is anything but friendly or grateful.

'It's nothing to do with what has happened since….it's Cotterdam. You were wrongfully accused, wrongfully imprisoned. These are details for a Swiss bank account in your name. One million pounds. It's yours, and you can do whatever you want to do with it. It' s standard compensation.' He is lying. The amount of money he got out of the HS is not standard – not by any means. But when the HS pointed out to him that really a million was too much, he lost his temper. He will not tell a living soul, til the day he died, what he told the man who, strictly speaking, is his boss. Or what the HS said. But he got what he wanted, what was _fair_, and Ruth need never know.

' A million pounds?' she struggles to get the words out.

He gestures at the flat. 'You might want to get your own home or…' He shrugs helplessly. 'Whatever you want, Ruth.'

She could rant, and shout, and tell him that they can keep their money and….but suddenly, the fight goes out of her. She no longer has the strength and energy to be angry with him - at least not tonight, not now. 'Thank you', she whispers, stroking the cats and enjoying the comforting sound of their purring. 'Thank you. And for the cats too….it was very thoughtful of you.'

They fall silent, sipping their tea.

'About this morning', he says, not looking at her.

'Don't', she says. 'Please, Harry, don't.'

'I just wanted to say that it won't….'

'George gave me companionship', she cuts in. 'Simple, undemanding companionship. We got on very well. In _every _way', she adds, looking straight at him, and meaning it. He flinches, and the pain on his face is more than she can bear. Still, out of loyalty for the man who shared her life unquestioningly for two years and who died for it, she continues, 'what we had was good, and decent, and solid. It gave me a family. Something which I had never had before, and will never have again.' He is about to say something, but she won't let him. 'And that is all I will ever say to you about it', she states, with a tone that admits of no argument.

She does not say anything about them, her feelings for him, his feelings for her, what they shared on that jetty so long ago. It's over, he tells himself. Jo _was _the only reason she came back. Not me, not what could have been….he sets his mug on the worktop, ever so carefully, ever so slowly. 'I'd better go. It's getting late.'

She does not protest and walks him back to the door. 'Bye Harry', she says softly as he disappears into the rain, towards his car.

She shuts the door before he even gets in, and sinks down onto the floor.

Crying.

**4. **

Half a million pounds does get you a nice mews house in London which you can at last call your home – even if you have decided to get rid of all your furniture from your previous life. The other half gives you peace of mind, and the knowledge that she can leave the service whenever she wants to without having to worry about money. It gets you a car, nice food, the books you love, the music you need to listen to in order to feel truly connected to your soul.

It gives you all of that. But it does not give you the boy whom you still think of as your step-son, and who refuses to come to the phone to talk to you. And it does not give you your husband back.

You miss your husband so much that it is like an ache that never goes away. You miss his easy companionship, his laughter, his strong accent. You miss the sex and the intimacy, the long shared meals on the terrace talking about everything and nothing. You did not think you would miss him so much, and you know that your feelings are laced with guilt at his meaningless death. Still, despite the fact that you were not in love with him, that you did not feel passionately about him, he was your friend, and your lover, and your companion, and you still cannot believe, you cannot accept that you will never see him again - that his son will never see him again.

And every day, you go to work, and analyze information, and go your bit for Queen and country. You strike up a friendship with Tariq, whose youthful enthusiasm for his job takes you back to how you used to feel, and whose slightly nerdish behaviour is in tune with your own idiosyncracies. His parents died when he was young, he spent some time in care, and you feel protective of him as if you were his older sister.

And so, day after day, you support the head of section D in his very important job. You see him come out of meetings with the home secretary with deeper lines etched on his face. He tells you, as he does all the other members of the team, things which would keep us, ordinary citizens, awake at night. And if he is a bit off, at times, with Tariq, a bit more reserved than usual, it's clearly because Tariq has not been truly tested yet.

He no longer shares things with you only. He no longer gives you all those little signals which told you that you had a special place in his life, in his heart. He is utterly polite, utterly ruthless too when the job demands it, and basically utterly _nice_.

And it is driving you crazy.

**5.**

He takes enormous care not to touch her, even accidentally, when he walks past her in the corridors. He does not unburden himself to her as he used to. He treats her exactly as he treats the other members of the team.

Yet, when she is so utterly focused on her work as to be oblivous to her surroundings, he watches her from behind the glass panels of his office. He wants to know how she is coping, whether she has managed to gain access to her step-son, how she is finding it, being back here, after all that has happened.

But the walls she has put up around her are so high, so thick, that he know he cannot get through to her. She has made it perfectly clear to him that she does not wish to talk about the past, about what they used to feel for each other…correction, about what _she _used to feel, because his feelings are as strong as they were, burn as brightly as they did all those years ago.

There has been no one since she left, and he used to tell himself that it was because of the job. He knows now that it's because of her, that if he cannot be with her, then he will remain alone. And he would give so much, so, so much, to have her smile at him as widely, as generously, as tenderly as she used to – as she smiles at Tariq, in fact.

Though he does his best to hide it, he does not like him. Rather, he does not like the way Ruth is around him. Relaxed, jokey, humourous…she is twelve years older than he is, he tells himself savagely, surely she cannot….oh, but _you _are fifteen years older than _she _is, so why not? She is brilliant, beautiful in her understated way so why would Tariq, why would anyone not want to be with her? And why would she not want to be with him, handsome Tariq with his dark liquid eyes, his long lithe frame, his waist not yet thickened by too many rich lunches in unsavoury company and lack of exercise…

He's never experienced jealousy before. He's always prided himself on being able to maintain a very tight leash on his emotions. Not anymore. Not where Ruth is concerned.

**Ch2.**

**1. **

It's been three months since her return, and slowly, almost reluctantly, she has begun to learn to love her job again. The sheer intellectual stimulation, the adrenaline coursing through her veins when she gets hold of the crucial bit of information which solves a case, the sense of doing something important, something valuable….all that she had taught herself to forget while she was in Cyprus has come back. The difference, this time, is that she is not trying to pretend to herself that her life is wholly fine. For now she knows what real intimacy, if not overriding passion, is like, and what it is like to experience the daily pleasures of sharing your life with someone else, of being part of a family, of fitting in that particular niche. And so when she comes home, every evening – the home she has also learnt to cherish as _her _refuge from the demands of her job – she notices how noisy silence can be, and how much she craves a shoulder to lean on and the feeling of a loving human touch.

She reflects on this, one long, late Friday afternoon, trying to find something else to do at her desk in order not to have to face her solitude, knowing that she absolutely must resist the temptation to become what she used to be – married to her job, with no life outside it. Without her realising it, all the others have left. Even Harry, which is odd, because he is usually the last one to go home. But he was called out in the middle of the morning, obviously on urgent business because he left in a hurry, without saying why.

Yet, he appears on the threshold of the large open plan office, and makes his way to his office, seemingly oblivious to her presence, to the glowing light on her desk, the flickering glimmer of her computer screen.

She was sick yesterday and hasn't seen him properly in a couple of days. She ought to check in with him, update him on what she has done with the Pakistan trail they have been exploring in connection with the Basel group. But since they failed to go for drinks the other night, at her invitation, he has not mentioned it again, and she dares not ask again. Still, his footsteps were heavy, his shoulders slumped, and her heart constricts at the sight of him. So, hesitantly, she gets up and, this time, for once, knocks on his door.

'Yes? What is it?' – his tone impatient and abrupt.

She slowly lets her hand fall at her side. Maybe it is not such a good idea after all…She is about to pull away when he opens his door, brusquely. He still has his coat on, and a bunch of mail, which he was obviously skimming quickly, in his hand.

'Oh. Ruth. You're still here', flatly, with very little emotion in his voice or on his face.

'Hi…sorry, it might not be a good time, but I need to give you an update on…'

'Ah, yes, the Pakistan connection….look, can this wait until Monday? I've had a lot on today and I need to get home pretty much now….' She stares at him. Never, in all the years she has known him, has he refused to listen to her tell him something important _about the job._ Never, except on one or two occasions when the pressure of finding a terrorist on the loose in London was crushing him, or when his concerns about one of his agents out in the field, has he brushed her off – has he brushed _anyone _off, in fact, in such a way. And _Monday?_ When most of them, he in particular, always come on a Saturday.

'It's fine', she says. 'It can wait until Monday. Look, if there's anything…'

'It's OK, Ruth. Go home. It's getting late….have a nice weekend.'

And that's her properly and nicely, but firmly, dismissed. And so she closes the door, every so slightly, ever so gently, her head turned away so that he cannot see how bright, how moist her eyes suddenly are with unshed tears.


	2. Chapter 2

2

It's been three months since her return, and slowly, almost reluctantly, she has begun to learn to love her job again. The sheer intellectual stimulation, the adrenaline coursing through her veins when she gets hold of the crucial bit of information which solves a case, the sense of doing something important, something valuable….all that she had taught herself to forget while she was in Cyprus has come back. The difference, this time, is that she is not trying to pretend to herself that her life is wholly fine. For now she knows what real intimacy, if not overriding passion, is like, and what it is like to experience the daily pleasures of sharing your life with someone else, of being part of a family, of fitting in that particular niche. And so when she comes home, every evening – the home she has also learnt to cherish as _her _refuge from the demands of her job – she notices how noisy silence can be, and how much she craves a shoulder to lean on and the feeling of a loving human touch.

She reflects on this, one long, late Friday afternoon, trying to find something else to do at her desk in order not to have to face her solitude, knowing that she absolutely must resist the temptation to become what she used to be – married to her job, with no life outside it. Without her realising it, all the others have left. Even Harry, which is odd, because he is usually the last one to go home. But he was called out in the middle of the morning, obviously on urgent business because he left in a hurry, without saying why.

Yet, he appears on the threshold of the large open plan office, and makes his way to his office, seemingly oblivious to her presence, to the glowing light on her desk, the flickering glimmer of her computer screen.

She was sick yesterday and hasn't seen him properly in a couple of days. She ought to check in with him, update him on what she has done with the Pakistan trail they have been exploring in connection with the Basel group. But since they failed to go for drinks the other night, at her invitation, he has not mentioned it again, and she dares not ask again. Still, his footsteps were heavy, his shoulders slumped, and her heart constricts at the sight of him. So, hesitantly, she gets up and, this time, for once, knocks on his door.

'Yes? What is it?' – his tone impatient and abrupt.

She slowly lets her hand fall at her side. Maybe it is not such a good idea after all…She is about to pull away when he opens his door, brusquely. He still has his coat on, and a bunch of mail, which he was obviously skimming quickly, in his hand.

'Oh. Ruth. You're still here', flatly, with very little emotion in his voice or on his face.

'Hi…sorry, it might not be a good time, but I need to give you an update on…'

'Ah, yes, the Pakistan connection….look, can this wait until Monday? I've had a lot on today and I need to get home pretty much now….' She stares at him. Never, in all the years she has known him, has he refused to listen to her tell him something important _about the job._ Never, except on one or two occasions when the pressure of finding a terrorist on the loose in London was crushing him, or when his concerns about one of his agents out in the field, has he brushed her off – has he brushed _anyone _off, in fact, in such a way. And _Monday?_ When most of them, he in particular, always come on a Saturday.

'It's fine', she says. 'It can wait until Monday. Look, if there's anything…'

'It's OK, Ruth. Go home. It's getting late….have a nice weekend.'

And that's her properly and nicely, but firmly, dismissed. And so she closes the door, every so slightly, ever so gently, her head turned away so that he cannot see how bright, how moist her eyes suddenly are with unshed tears.


	3. Chapter 3

He sits down behind his desk, heavily, bone tired. He knows that his behaviour to Ruth, a moment ago, was bad. Abrupt. Dismissive. Standoffish. But tonight, of all nights, after the day he has had, he does not have the energy to handle his feelings for her, the love and desire which her simple presence arouses in him. And what he would have had to tell her, to explain it all, would have surely would have reawakened such painful memories, surely would have ignited her anger with him, and for that too he no longer has the energy.

He cannot read her. She is more lively these days, more engaged with her work. More engaged with him too. She suggested they go out of a drink the other night, after a particularly gruelling time. He was feeling very down, she could obviously sense it. As always, the job got in the way, they could not make it, and the moment passed. He should have taken the initiative after that, he was going to, but what was the point? To sit across her, to wonder whether to extend the drinks into diner, to debate whether to offer to drive her home….when she has made it perfectly clear that she is not interested in him in that way, that she found with her partner what he was never able to offer her. So he let it go, devoid of the courage to risk it all again, only to have it thrown back to his face.

And now, he has got to go home, and prepare for what lies ahead this weekend. He switches off the light on his desk, and makes his way out, only to realise that she is still there, at her own desk, staring into space absent-mindedly, shoulders slumped, looking dejected.

As if in a dream, he walks towards her and stands in front of her. Had he been asked two minutes ago, he would have sworn he would not do what he is about to do.

'Do you remember Wes?', he asks.

She looks up, startled by his closeness. 'Yes, of course. Adam's son. Why?'

'He's in a boarding school. Easier that way, with both is parents dead. Anyway. Fiona, his mum….her parents were his legal guardians. His only living relatives.'

He stops, struggling to find the words. 'The school called me this morning. They were killed in a road accident yesterday night.'

She goes pale. 'Oh no. Oh no….poor, poor boy. But…why did they call you?'

He shrugs. 'The service has been paying the school fees. And I had given my contact number, just in case….I was the one who told him…' He stops, and looks away, unable to bear her direct, bright, blue gaze. 'I was the one who told him about his dad. I sometimes go and visit him…you know, when he's got a rugby game…'

She does not know what to say. In Wes, she sees Nico, with whom she has had no contact for months. And yet, Nico still has family, whereas Wes has no one left. And she cannot quite believe that she has just heard it right. That Harry has taken it upon itself to keep an eye on this boy. And yet, does it not make perfect sense?

'What's going to happen with him?', she asks finally.

'Hard to tell. Social services can appoint a legal guardian. As long as we keep paying for the school, which we will, he can stay there. Basically, we'll take care of him until he is 18. But in five years from now…as far as the state is concerned, he is on his own.'

She can't fathom what it is like, for a 13 year old boy, to have lost everyone, and for the 18 year old he will soon be, to have to face the rest of his life without the anchor of a family.

'Anyway', Harry continues, not quite looking at her. 'I'm sorry I was off with you earlier…the funeral is tomorrow and I am taking Wes home with me afterwards until he goes back on Sunday afternoon. So I'll see you on Monday, OK.?'

He smiles at her, in her direction rather, a weak, tired, pained smile and turns around….Within two seconds, she makes her mind up.

'Harry', she calls out, 'would you…I mean, you don't have to say yes, and it would be fine if you say no but…the funeral tomorrow…..would you like me to come with you?'


	4. Chapter 4

Returns ch 4

The funeral is a somewhat drab affair. Very few people in attendance – Wes' grandparents obviously kept to themselves – save for a couple of neighbours, Wes' headmaster, and a few friends. Still. Ruth is glad she went. When she offered, Harry looked at her incredulously. She almost bactracked then, but he preempted her. In a low, husky voice, he thanked her, and said yes, very simply.

And so now she is standing beside him, aware that those who do not know their history are assuming that she is there as his partner, or wife, both of them a friend of Wes' defunct parents. Aware too that no one here has the faintest idea of who they are and what they do for a living.

Wes, eyes red rimmed has barely said a word since greeting her. He is a gangly boy, hurtling fast towards adolescence though his voice has not quite broken yet. He reminds her of Adam, the blond hair, the already tall and athletic frame, but with his mother's eyes. Watching him is almost painful, a reminder of those long ago years, when she knew what her place was in the world, and when her feelings for the man standing beside her, sombre in his dark clothes, were so much more simple.

Harry too does not say much. He has a lot on his mind, work of course, but also the boy, whose future looks decidedly uncertain. She's barely had time to exchange a few words with him today and at first wondered what on earth she was doing there. Especially as the funeral reminded her of the one she was not able to attend – of George's, whose body she never saw after he was shot….and yet, she knows, from the fact that he never once leaves her side, that Harry is glad to have her there, as a comforting presence – a companion, someone with whom words are not always necessary.

During the very short reception afterwards, while she is trying, unsuccessfully, to draw Wes out of his shell, she sees him retreat in a side room with the school's headmaster for a long, hushed conversation. As Wes is taken away by one of his friends, Harry walks back to her.

'How are you doing?' he asks her, solicitously.

She shrugs. 'Fine. I mean, you know….poor Wes though…what will happen to him?'

'I've just had a conversation with Mr Duncan, his headmaster. I've applied to become his legal guardian. Should be straightforward. But he'll stay at the boarding school if he wants to until he takes his A levels.'

'And then?'

'It's five years away, Ruth…' He falls silent. His eyes too are red rimmed, from worry and exhaustion. 'I will always be there for him. Always', he adds with quiet, unshakeable determination.

Impulsively she puts her hand on his arm. 'I know', she says quietly. 'Are you still taking him to your house tonight?'

'Yes. Tomorrow some parents of a friend of his have offered to have him around and to take him back to the school. And after that….He is used to spending every other weekend at friends or at the school. Sports and things…he'll keep doing that, and I will have him the other weekend, and for part of the holidays…'

She can't help wonder what they will do, the two of them, middle aged man and teenage boy, who do not know each other very well, in Harry's large house….And the demands of the job too. Her scepticism must show on her face because he says, sharply, 'I have….I had a son, Ruth. And my daughter….children are not a wholly alien species to me, you know.'

She flinches. Because of course, she does not have a child of her own, and by the look of it, never will, and suddenly memories of Nico flood back, of the family life she did have and lost….

'I'm sorry', he says quickly, 'I shouldn't have said that…You came here to offer support and I…' He rubs his eyes, tiredly.

'Look, it's OK, we're….you're exhausted, it's been a long day….and I think you need time with Wes on your own now. I'll see myself back home. See you at the office on Monday, OK?'

And within two seconds, she's gone. He lowers his head, in despair. One step forward, two steps backward, he thinks dejectedly.

'Uncle Harry?' he looks up, sharply. Wes is standing in front of him 'Uncle Harry…everyone is leaving now and….you don' t have to take me back, I can go back to the school, Mr Duncan said…'

And in that moment, Harry can read him like a book: he can see the uncertainty, the sadness, and shyness on the boy's face. Not wanting to be a burden, and yet desparately needing to feel that he matters to someone, that he is not just someone who has to be looked after willy nilly. He puts his hand on Wes' bony shoulder. 'You're coming with me. We'll order some food. And tomorrow morning, we will turn one of the guest rooms into _your _room.' He lets the implications of that simple statement sink in. 'Wes', he adds gently, 'I _am_ here for you, OK?'

The boy nods, limps trembling. 'Is Ruth coming with us tonight?'he asks.

Harry starts. 'Uh, no. Why?'

'Dunno.' Silence. 'She's nice.'

Harry smiles – a touch wryly, a touch sadly. 'Yes. She is….she was a friend of your dad's too.'

'Is she your girlfriend?',Wes asks innocently.

Harry glares at him, but sees nothing mischevious in the boy's eyes and face. Just honest, simple curiosity. 'No', he says simply. And something in his voice clearly tells Wes that this is not permitted territory, because he says nothing. But as they get their coats and bid their farewell to the vicar, and walk to the car, he mumbles something, not very clearly, shyly, but as the evening wears on, and over diner, and later when holding a sobbing Wes in his arms, Harry can still hear it, a faint echo, and a promise of a future: 'thank you, uncle Harry. Thank you.'


	5. Chapter 5

4

Returns ch 5

**1. **

On the Monday morning after the funeral, she gets to work at 7am, more early than usual, trying to put behind her that difficult embryonic exchange of words about Harry's fitness as a surrogate father figure, and the long, lonely, grey, rainy Sunday which she spent moping around her house and wondering how he and Wes were doing. Today, she is not the first to arrive. Harry is already there, absorbed in reading some file or other. She wishes she had more time to collect herself before facing him. No such luck. On cue, he raises his head and spots her, and walks over to her desk.

'Morning, Ruth'.

'Morning, Harry.'

'You're here early.'

She shrugs and looks away. 'I thought I would catch up with things…easier when it is so quiet.'

They both speak at the same tim. 'Ruth, I wanted to say…'

'How is Wes doing?' she asks.

'Hard to tell. I get the impression he wasn't particularly close to his grandparents. But still….they were his last family link to his parents…' He looks down, seemingly absorbed in the pattern of her screensaver. 'Am I doing the right thing?' he asks uncertainly, implicitly apologising for his cutting remark at the funeral.

She thinks for a few seconds. She knows he will not be deceived by glib reassurance. 'yes', she states at last, with quiet certainty. 'You'll be fine. You'll be a good role model for him. And he will need that.'

Her comment touches him, more than he wants her to see. 'Thank you', he whispers. 'But I worry we have nothing in common and….what can I do with him when he stays over? I mean…'

'You both love rugby. And is he not into playing the piano?'

He stares at her, astonished. 'How on earth do you know that?'

'Oh, I remember Adam saying something about it, years ago…'

He chuckles. 'My God, Ruth. Where is there space, in that brain of yours, to store all that information?'

She smiles. 'Your regular 1T hard drive, that's me', she answers drolly. 'Anyway, you're a classical music buff, that's something else you can do together…' Then, more seriously, 'what he needs is affection, and the knowledge that you will not let him down and suddenly decide you can't be bothered with him. That's what he needs. As for the rest….it will come.'

And he realises that she is speaking from the experience she gained from looking after a mother-less little boy. He nods. 'Thanks', he repeats. 'And for coming to the funeral on Saturday. He clears his voice. embarrassed. 'That meant a lot….' He seems about to add something, but doesn't. So she smiles, and looks away. There is a long silence, neither of them able to find a way back to a conversation. One final smile, a reminder of the staff meeting at 8:30am, as if she needed reminding, and he is gone. Just like that. So she goes back to her file, knowing that this – friendly exchanges once in a while – is the way it is going to be.

And meanwhile, he sits at his desk, tries to concentrate on yet another report from one of their assets – working undercover in a far-right movement -, and fails. There is so much he would have liked to say. Such as the fact that he came in very early, this morning, not merely because he had lots of reading to catch up on, but because he was hoping to have a proper conversation with her, before the others would get in. Such as the fact that her presence at his side on Saturday meant more than a lot, it meant _everything_….such as the fact that he would love to be able to sound her out in the next few weeks when he does not really know how to deal with Wes….and it is that, in fact, which stopped him. Because at that point, it suddenly hit him that talking about how to handle Wes would mean thinking about Nico. And that thinking about Nico would mean, inevitably, going back to that moment, months before, when he very nearly had to choose between the life of that boy and the lives of hundreds of people. Even though he no longer knows what he would have done had it come to this, what he does know, is that unless they can talk about it, he and Ruth will always be stuck in that painful place of flashes of genuine friendship mixed with horrendous memories. And yet, Ruth did make it perfectly clear that she would never broach that topic with him, or the topic of her relationship with George, again. He has too much respect for her, he loves her too much, to overstep that boundary once more. _You made your bed, you lie in it_, he tells himself grimly but resolutely, playing with his pen absent-mindedly. _Treat her like a colleague who is also a friend, except a friend you never see outside work. That's all you can ever hope to have with her, and you don't really deserve more so just accept it. Just. Accept. It._

**2. **

Slowly, over the following weeks, Harry and Wes settle into a routine. Every other Saturday, Harry picks the boy up from his school and takes him back there late afternoon on the Sunday. Sometimes Wes has a match or a party to go to, but more often than not, they go on outings – local rugby matches, and concerts as Wes, who is indeed a talented pianist, loves classical music as much as the stuff his peers listen to all day long - to Harry's immense and undisguised relief. Wes is learning to relax with him, to read genuine and growing affection behind the older man's kindly reserve, to tease him even on his decidedly old-fashioned tastes in music. With the strength and resilience of the young, the boy is getting through his grief at the loss of his entire family. In Harry, he finds someone who is always willing to tell him about his parents – not what they did of course, that has to remain a secret. All he tells him is that they were working for the Foreign Office, and both were unlucky to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Wes is very bright, and Harry knows that the day will come when he will want to know more. In the meantime, he seems more interested in what they were like, as people. What they enjoyed doing, what kind of music they liked, whether they travelled a lot….It's clear from his questions that his grandparents taught him not to inquire – too painful, probably. So Harry does his best to satisfy his curiosity, gets hold of old photographs….

In between rugby matches, plays, and classical concerts, Harry begins to see that he is doing for Wes what he never did for his children. He is old enough to know, now, what comes first, what's important – certainly not his career – and with his enjoyment of Wes' company comes grief at the realisation of what he cheated his son and daughter from. His son is dead, and he can no longer make amends. But with his daughter, he tries, rings her more often than he used to, accepts what she feels able to give him without pushing, hopeful that the hep of time and his obdurate persistence they will manage, at long last, to have a proper relationship.

Work is still demanding though – of course it is. Aspiring terrorists do not make allowance for the sudden change in his circumstances. But he is learning to accept that barring real national emergencies, he does not need to go to to work every single weekend, provided he puts in a punishing schedule in between Wes' stays. The superior quality of his staff helps too. Ruth, particularly. She always was very good, but somehow, since she's got back, her analysis skills are sharper, she is even quicker, she can see and draw connections between seemingly random bits of information more clearly before. He always had enormous respect for her professionalism, but now – and no, it is not love talking – he is in awe of her sheer brilliance, and of the way she never loses sight of the human dimension of the drama which they are playing day in day out. Like the day he had to decide whether or not to allow Lucas to put pressure on a 17 year old unwilling informant to keep ferretting out life-saving information: he looked up at her whilst telling Lucas to proceed, Nico's ghost hovering in the air, she told him quietly it was the right thing to do, and briefly touched his fingers with hers on her way out. A simple gesture, in which he knows he should not read more than friendship.

And so it is out of frienship, he tells himself, that he invites her to join him and Wes at a symphony concert one Saturday afternoon, and that he suggests that she join them for diner. And it is purely because she and Wes get on well - both obsessed with trivial historical facts – , he tells himself, that he reissues an invitation, a few weeks later – to a rugby game this time, in which Wes is playing. And it is purely because they are friends, and this is what friends do, that he asks her whether she would like to come to the small party he is having for Wes' birthday, with some of the boys' friends, and a few of his own, a few weeks later. Purely out of friendship, and to give Wes a semblance of a woman's presence in his life. Purely for that. Because, if truth be told, he is content to have it that way, to enjoy the very little she seems prepared to give him. He does not have space for more anyway, does he, with Wes needing care and attention, and the job demanding every atom of energy he has….

Or so he tells himself, until the night of the Ambassadors' ball.


	6. Chapter 6

4

**Returns ch 6.**

**NOTE: ****the new character I am introducing, Cordelia Granville, would be played by Helen Mirren if I had my way….:-)**

1.

The Ambassadors' Ball is a once-a-year reception given by the Queen, at Buckingham Palace, for all Ambassadors to the Court of St James. Close to a 140 ambassadors and High Commissioners, their wives or mistresses - more rarely their husbands or male lovers -, and a vast contingent of diplomats a high percentage of whom work for their countries' intelligence services… a rather volatile mix, underneath the evening gowns and black ties, the champaign flutes and smooth chatter.

Harry does not normally attend the ball, as the service is represented by its Head. But Cordelia Granville, the newly appointed Head, has somehow prevailed on him to go. 'I need you there, Harry', she stated, politely but regally. 'Who knows who might have useful bits of information leading us to Nightingale…'

He was not aware that she knew. In fact, he has been guarding the Nightingale business so closely that he was convinced she did not. That she does means two things: either she is part of it and is testing him, or she is very, very good – even better than her stratospheric reputation suggests. Though her apparent closeness to the new Home Secretary worries him – he cannot shake his innate distrust for the man - he is not yet sure what to think and reserves judgement. What he does know, though, is that Cordelia Granville, appointed on the back of a stellar career at MI6 of all places, has the making of a superb Head of MI5 – better than he himself could ever have been. She is tough, ruthless, and has a phenomenal grasp of the demands of her job. That too is a worry: some Heads are little else than figure-heads. This one though, you want on your side.

And so he agreed to go, a chore really for he doubts that they will get much out of it, but looking forward to the piano recital which will precede the diner. Schubert, Beethoven and Schumann, Alfred Brendel, world class soloist, at the piano,…Still, before doing anything else,– and without consulting with Granville,– he organises Ros, Lucas, and Tariq back at Thames House, into extra pairs of ears. They will get lots of information, Ros disguised as a waitress, Lucas as a usher, both wearing listening devices, feeding back to Tariq. Much of it will be dross- though leverage in the form of illicit affairs between diplomats always comes in useful: not blackmail, note, just a bit of well applied pressure…but if they are extraordinarily lucky, they might also get some gems. Some unconnected tidbits which, once connected, will help them build up their map of Nightingale. For they are still very much in the dark as far Nightingale is concerned. They have a multitude of dots, but very few connecting lines, and yet they sense, through greater unrest on the streets, and mutterings in the corridors of power, that a storm is brewing. So information is what they need, but meanwhile, he has to position the final piece of the jigsaw.

Three days before the ball, he walks over to Ruth's desk. He clears his throat.

'Ruth?'

She looks up. 'Hi', she smiles. 'What's up?' Her smile is warm and genuine, but not intimate or close. It's just….just a smile. A friendly smile. He likes it that way, really, he does.

'About the ball…', he says

'Everything is sorted out. I will stay here with Tariq listening in while you guys have fun…' she retorts half teasingly.

His own smile feels very strained to him. 'The thing is…I was wondering. I can't really go on my own, it'd look, well, people who do not know who I am might wonder whether my presence is warranted and…'

'Surely you can escort Granville, can't you?', she asks, looking puzzled. She finds Granville, upper class, superbly educated, impeccable bearing, innate elegance, and a hint – well, more than a hint in fact – of sexiness, daunting. And if she were willing to probe herself, she would acknowledge that she does not like the thought of Harry escorting this woman at this glamorous event. But because she is not willing to do that, she comes up with the most natural, most obvious suggestion.

'Well, no, not really. Her husband's in town.'

'Really? I thought they had split up three months ago because of his drinking problem.'

Only ten or so people in the country are supposed to know that the head of MI5 and her husband are hitting a rocky patch. Of those twenty, only three or four are supposed to know that he has a drinking problem. It should not surprise him that Ruth is one of them. It does, and it annoys him, ever so slightly, that she suggests he go to this thing with another woman. He quickly pushes the flash of annoyance aside.

'They did, but for ceremonial stuff he shows up. Can't resist a free glass of wine', he adds snidely. She raises her eyebrows: this is out of character, something is up, and she is not sure what.

'So, I was wondering', he ploughs on, as if pedalling through jam, 'whether you would like to come.' There. He's said it.

She stares at him. 'Me. As your what? I mean, what is my cover exactly?' she challenges him.

He plays with a pencil. 'Well, we wouldn't need to say anything. Let people assume what they want.'

'I'd be your escort for the night, in other words.'

'Well, yes, I mean…those guests are less likely to button up than if I were on my own…diplomatic circles are notoriously conservative, at least outwardly. It would give me a good cover, and you could keep an ear out for nugdets of information…only if you'd want to, that is. I wouldn't ask you normally, those things are such a chore but since Cordelia doesn't need me to …' He stops abruptly. He senses that none of that came out the right way, but he doesn't know how to backtrack, how to make it sound better.

But she does not give him the opportunity anyway. _Oh. Cordelia it is then_, she thinks. And she, Ruth, is obviously second-choice. She clenches her teeth. 'It's OK, Harry, of course I will.'

He can feel himself relax. 'Oh good, I wouldn't want you to feel embarrassed or…'

She cuts him off, not quite looking at him, 'Why would I feel embarrassed? It's a job. For Ros and Lucas too. So really it's no problem. Shall I meet you there? I will need to help Tariq finish setting up here.'

_A job. Yes. Of course…._'No. We will go together. I will have my driver pick us up downstairs at 7:30pm.' He does not quite know how to say what he feels he has to say. 'It's black tie, obviously. Will you be OK for clothes or…'

A faint blush creeps up her neck. She looks at him straight in the eyes. 'Don't worry, Harry, I do know how to dress for those things.'

Had his mobile phone not rung at this exact moment, he really does not know what he would have said to that. And how he would have managed to get back to the right footing with her.

Basically, in that entire conversation, he has struck exactly the wrong note at every possible turn.

**2.**

She finished with Tariq earlier, and managed to stick in a one-hour session at a very stylish hairdresser's salon round the corner. Hair, make-up, the lot. She had to draw on every ounce of courage she had to walk into the place and ask them to do her hair and make up. The owner took one look at her, standing awkwardly but with determination in front of him, and knew, right away, who is was dealing with: a woman unused to feeling attractive, hiding herself behind vaguely shapen clothes, having her hair done about once every four months. He knew better than to ask what she was doing that required his services, aware that she would bolt out of his salon at the slightlest excuse. He also knew better than to gush when his job was done. He accepted her payment, revelled in her widened eyes and blushing cheeks when she looked at herself in the mirror, and told himself, privately, that whoever it was she was doing this for was a very lucky man indeed.

For three days, Ruth has managed not to _really _think of that very lucky man. She has told herself that the only reason she was doing this, after the long, draining afternoon spent at Harrods', was to ensure that she would not embarrass herself at the ball. She has pushed their conversation to the back of her mind. She has refused to ponder and analyse its twists and turns. Harry, tonight, is her boss. Correct that: save for some lovely moments with him and Wes, during which she feels that they really can be friends, he is her boss, period. And so tonight, she has a job to do, and she will do it well, and meticulously and correctly, as ever.

She gets back to Thames House, where she has left her evening gown and shoes, and retreats to the ladies' cloakroom to get dressed. At 7:28pm punctual as ever, praying that she will not bump into any of her colleagues, she makes her way downstairs to the foyer, where Harry, she knows, will be waiting.


	7. Chapter 7

6

**Returns ch 7**

**Author's note: posting again today as ch 7 is written.**** It is quite long but after whetting your apetites I thought you might want to have the whole of the ball in one go….**

**1. **

He does not like wearing black tie. Well, white tie as it happens. He does not like the feeling of it around his neck, or the constricting feeling of the evening belt around his waist. They make him feel bigger still, more awkward. He does not like the formality of those events, he regards them as an encumbrance, something to get through as quickly and painlessly as he can.

And tonight, he is uncharacteristically nervous. He knows he did not handle his invitation to Ruth very well. If truth be told, as soon as he gets out of the nice little comfort zone he has created around his relationship with her, he founders. The comfort zone includes work and their occasional outings with Wes. It absolutely does not include taking her to a ball, even if the ball is part of work. As for his stupid, stupid question about clothes…he could have kicked himself.

He paces around the foyer, waiting for her. _At least we'll have the recital_, he tells himself, _nothing can go wrong there…then the diner…I doubt she will want to dance- thank God actually because with my two left-foot I'd be trampling all over her. So we'll mingle and look out for whatever it is that Cordelia hope we will find. Or not as it happens…_

The sound of footsteps breaks into his musings. He looks up, and his words of greeting remain stuck in his throat.

She is stunning. She does not have the ice-queen beauty of Ros, or the sexy attractiveness of Jo, or the musky, charismatic power of Cordelia Granville. What she has though…he cannot describe it, except that to him, in that moment, she is all woman. Femine, her gown setting off her curves, its colour a perfect match to her eyes…her hair piled up, a discreed hint of make-up, a lovely hint of perfume….

'Ruth…you look….' He swallows, his mouth dry, feeling like a schoolboy, resenting his bulk, wishing he could match her, stylishness for stylishness, elegance for elegance…

She smiles at him, shyly, slighty nervously. 'Shall we go?' she asks simply. He nods, escorts her to the car, and as the driver weaves his way carefully around the streets of London – not too far to go to the Palace, he is keenly aware of her presence by his side, of this new facet to her character which he had never known existed.

Aware too that the carefully constructed lie he has been telling himself for months now has just been blown apart to smitherens.

**2.**

They don't say very much at all in the car. There's electricity in the air, and tension, but now is neither the time nor the place to talk about it. Soon they are making their entrance into the beautifully decorated concert hall, the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh distant figures at the front of the room, and take their place for the concert. Alfred Brendel, one of the best concert pianists in the world, walks onto the stage, and sits at the magnificant Steinway, and begins to play….

The lights have been dimmed and the room is set in darkness. She lets the music wash over her, aware only of the sound of Beethoven's Moonlight sonata – and of the man sitting beside her. She senses that he has turned his head, and is watching her. She knows that if she turns towards him, and meets his gaze, it will seal between them a recognition of the undercurrent of love and desire which she thought had been buried for good. Even she could tell, looking at herself in the full size mirror of the cloakroom, that she looked attractive. Yet, after months of nothing but somewhat bland friendliness, Harry's face when he saw her in the foyer, moments ago, threw her. And she is frightened, because this is too much, too son, too intense, too disruptive of the lonely and cautious life she has so painstakingly built for herself since coming back from Cyprus. So, heart-hammering in her chest, she does not gaze back at him, silently begs him to stop watching her and at the same time begs him _not _to turn away…

**3****.**

He is mesmerized by her profile, by the light in her eyes which he can see through the darkness. Yet, he turns away. She must have known he was watching her, but she chose not to respond. Well, that's her answer to his unspoken question, then. He stiffles a sigh. Beethoven, Schubert…the sheer romanticism of their music beneath Brendel's hands, in that moment, is a cruel joke to him.

Once the concert is over, he asks her, with friendly interest, mustering every ounce of self-control he has, whether she enjoyed it. Yes, she did, thank you. Beautiful playing and don't you think the way Brendel…they chat amicably, able somehow not to betray what they each, separately, really feel for each other. At diner, she is sitting between him and the French cultural attaché. On his right, he's got a somewhat inebriated Consul to deal with. He was hoping to have a conversation with Ruth, but no such luck. From afar, he can spot Ros and Lucas milling around the room, making sure that guests are being served, every bit the efficient waitress and usher. He wishes either of them could free him of the torture of having to deal with his neighbour – and of having to witness Ruth engaged in a lively and animated conversation about theatre with the Frenchman. Fortunately, Cordelia Granville, and her husband, for once sober, are across him. He starts talking to them, witty, meaningless gossip with a hint of flirtation from her, the kind of stuff he can do in his sleep and which profoundly bores him even though he can put on a good show. He snatches bits of conversation between Ruth and this man, whose name he really should remember, about some obscure French drama…pretentious prat, he thinks to himself savagely. One more dish to go, then he can get up and mill around, and do what he does best, ferretting out information, playing people against each other, mentally reconfiguring his map of where real power lies – with Ruth, who after all is here to work too, at his side.

**4. **

To her surprise, she is beginning to enjoy herself. Her neighbour at diner, Jean-Marie de Cointreau, is widely read – he is after all the cultural attaché of a country which prides itself on cultural nous -, funny, witty, and at the same time down to earth. He took up his post two months before after a stint in Berlin, and she enjoys giving him the low down on what London has to offer. He loves languages, as she does, and is a movie buff. Time flies by, and the lively banter makes it easier for her to block out the way Harry intently talks to Cordelia Granville, and the way Granville, right in front of her apparently estranged husband, flirts with him and makes it obvious that she is interested. And Harry answers back, seemingly amused– his brief moment of intensity in the foyer of Thames House, and later at the concert, obviously forgotten. Or perhaps not: he is not a superficial man, that much she knows, and she would not have him down as a flirt. Besides, she did not exactly encourage him either….She pulls herself together: now really is not the place to ponder their relationship.

And so instead she focuses on the Frenchman, whose dark eyes and intelligent face remind her of George. Aand she realises, as diner wears on, that her memories of George's are not as painful, they are more mellow, softer, blurred somehow. She will never fully forgive herself for his death, but she can see now that she is able to talk to someone who looks like him, without feeling as if she will collapse from the pain. She is grateful to Jean-Marie for unwittingly showing her that her grief is lessening, and in her gratitude becomes more animated, more lively still as hope starts burgeoning within her that perhaps she and Harry will somehow manage to find a way to each other.

One more dish, and diner will be over, and unfortunately she will have to start circulating…back to work, in effect.

**5. **

She is standing by Harry's side, listening to some diplomat droning on about his time in Pakistan, aware of the man's dismissive gaze on her: to him she is just there as a decorative object, someone who has to be there because really it is unbecoming for men to attend those balls on their own. To her, he is an idiot, like so many idiots before this evening whose meaningless chatter she has had to endure since they rose at the end of the diner.

She's not exchanged more than ten words with Harry. He's impassive, cold, and lets on nothing of what he is feeling, thinking….from someone whose face registered naked shock, and desire, when she appeared before him in the foyer of Thames House, he's turned into a blank canevass. And yet, she senses tension in him, she sees suppressed anger underneath his coldness. She doesn't understand where it is coming from. She tried earlier to get him to move away from the crowd, to somewhere where they can talk, and relax, and share what they have learned from the diner. In truth, she was hoping for a private moment with him, to see whether she had imagined it all earlier. But he firmly pointed out that they must circulate. Well, she's had enough. She's been on her feet for over an hour now, she can hear the orchestra tune up in the ballroom, the time will come soon when they will have to leave because once the dancing starts, the atmosphere changes, becomes festive, and there's no way they will get anything then…

'Mary' – a charming, accented, voice. For this evening, she is Mary Smith – she cannot use her real name of course. Nor can Harry, who tonight is here as John Lavender.

'Jean-Marie…' she acknowledged with a smile. She turns to Harry. 'John, I don't think you have met Jean Marie de Cointreau, have you? Jean-Marie is France's cultural attaché in London. Jean-Marie, this is John, a friend of mine.'

'No, I haven't had the…pleasure', Harry says coldly, assessing the tall, dark, handsome, 40- something man.

De Cointreau turns to Ruth. 'Mary, might you want to have the opening dance with me?'

She stares at him, dumbfounded. She is not sure that she wants to dance with this man whom she did not even know two hours ago. Reflexively she turns to Harry – half hoping he will pre-empt her and offer to take her for the walz, not quite sure really because he has never once intimated to her that he likes dancing.

He meets her gaze briefly. He knows he cannot say no on pain of arousing people's suspcions: if he is what he is supposed to be to her tonight, a friend, he must not prevent her from doing this, he cannot suddenly act as…as what? Her boss? A jealous lover? He bites back the unbidden thought. 'It's fine…You go of course. You know how hopeless I am at this. But we need to leave pretty soon though…'

Within two seconds, she's been whisked away to the ballroom, in a blur of blue evening gown. He makes to follow her, desperately wanting to observe her from afar, to see whether there really is attraction between them, but Ros suddenly materialises at his side, carrying a tray of drinks. 'More champaign, sir?'

'Ermm. No. No thank you .May I have a glass of white wine instead, please?'

Code for 'anything interesting?'

'Of course, though you might want to consider the red', she replies smoothly with a praticed smile. In other words, yes, we've got a few things, nothing earth shattering. Had she said 'certainly', it would have meant a big development. Still, a _few _things….

That decides him. He walks over to the ballroom, where the walz is winding down, tries studiously to ignore Ruth' s dancing partner as he makes his way to them. He hears snatches of an exchange, de Cointreau asks whether they can meet again, Ruth's answer he cannot really hear, he finally gets to her, their car is waiting, perhaps she might want to consider leaving, the time it would take to get their coats…he is aware of what he sounds like, a not particularly friendly man in his fifties, set in his ways, stiff, formal, not up for an evening of fun and jollity….he does not care. In that moment, he really could not care less. All her cares about is to get her away from here, and if he has to use work to do that….He nods a brief goodbye to the Frenchman, and quickly steers Ruth, who's barely had time to get a word in, towards the exit.

'What's going on?' Ruth asks as soon as the car speeds off. Her house first, to drop her off.

'They've got something. Debriefing tomorrow morning at 8:00.' They fall silent. 'Did you manage to get anything interesting?'

'No', she shrugs. 'I wasn't really expecting to though…'

'Nothing from the French attaché?', he persists. He's fishing. He wants to know what she and de Cointreau talked about – apart from obsure playwriting.

'No. He gave me no opening anyway.'

His raised eyebrows tell of his incomprehension. 'I mean', she says, 'that he didn't talk politics or…no angle there that I could see.' At this time of the night, there is hardly any traffic. Five minutes to her house, she reckons, and tomorrow there will be no time to talk, to connect, to try and recapture the earlier electricity between them. Impulsively, she puts her hand on his harm. 'Harry, thanks for taking me tonight. I know it was work but…I had a lovely time, actually.'

Well, he could definitely see that. 'Good', he replies with the thinnest of smiles. 'I'm glad.' She pulls away, with a hurt look on her face. He knows that he is behaving badly, and it is not as if she ever made him any promise. But since he saw her, in that foyer, earlier tonight, he has felt overwhelmed by his love for her, and his desire. For three years he has built a dam against those feelings and since she came back, and made it clear to him that she did not want him, he has reinforced the dam with concrete; but now, the dam is beginning to crack, and he is trying to keep it upright, and failing, and he knows he probably won't have the strength to do this for much longer.

The car comes to a stop. He gets out, and walks her to her front door. 'Thanks for coming', he says. '8am tomorrow, yes?'

She nods, gets in, he waits until he can hear the sound of the locks clicking into place, and goes back to his car. He pulls out his mobile. 'Tariq? It's Harry. A few things, Ros tell me… We are meeting in the conference room at 8am tomorrow. Now listen. I need one last thing from you before you go home. I want to know every thing there is to know about the new French cultural attaché. And I do mean everything. Schools he went to, previous postings, connections he might have made with people we are keeping track of, his…proclivities, likes, dislikes…everything. Especially links he might have to the French Secret Services. Their man here is the Embassy's first secretary but still….How long will you need? An hour? Is that all? Right. In that case…have your report on my desk by the time I come in at 7am tomorrow. Thank you.'

He clicks the phone shut. He has just manipulated a young, and still naïve and overawed, IT genius into giving him information which he wants purely for private reasons. He's not proud of himself. He does not like that ruthless streak in him. It's the worst part of him. But right now, he couldn't help it. The dam really is cracking.


	8. Chapter 8

**Ch.8**

He's been staring at the file which Tariq put togeher, without really seeing it. The best schools, aristocratic background, very good postings suggesting a glittering career in the upper echelon of the French diplomatic service, no dodgy friendship, unmarried at the age of 40, which is not so unusual these days, no hint of homosexuality but a couple of long term relationships with French and Italian socialites (damn, thought Harry when he read that bit), no children…nothing.

He rubs a hand over his tired eyes. He didn't get much sleep, and it's catching up with him. He hasn't seen Ruth yet: uncharacteristically, all the other have arrived already, before her. It's 8am, time for their debriefing meeting. He's made it clear that he was expecting her to attend….

And she walks in, cheeks rosy from the cold, bright blue eyes, dark circles betraying that she too has not had enough sleep, makes her apologies, and as they all sit around the big conference table, wearily, tiredly, it occurs to him that he must stop thinking about her, about them, and appear as what he ought to be: in control, a leader, someone on whose shoulders crucial decisions rest.

'Right. Good morning everyone', he starts. 'So. Last night. Neither Ruth nor I got anything useful. Ros? Lucas?'

Ros looks at him warily: there's something odd in his voice, in his demeanour – it's clipped somehow, tense. 'Well. Not much our end. Except two things. One, the American Consul had a long private chat with his Chinese counterpart. Odd, given the tensions between the two countries. Not sure what the cousins are doing. As far as we know, there's nothing out of the ordinary in the usual conversations we are listening to through the normal channels, which might suggest that those two were discussing something strictly unofficial.'

'Two', Lucas continues, 'the Home Secretary had his own little confab with the Indian's High Commission third secretary. That's odd: what is the holder of one of the highest positions in the British government doing talking for 40 mns with a lowly diplomat?'

'He's probably Indian Intelligence Services', Harry states. 'So the question is, what is our Home Secretary doing talking to the Indian intelligence services. What do we know about this guy?'

'Tariq?' Ros asks.

Tariq smiles apologetically. 'Sorry, I didn't have the time to get it all. It took me longer than I thought to get the info about the de Cointreau, the French guy.'

'What French guy?' Ros asks curiously.

Harry closes his eyes briefly. He was so tired, so overwrought the night before that he forgot to instruct Tariq to keep his request to himself. He needs to think of something credible to say, right now, before…

'Harry?' Ruth speaks up, her voice tight. 'You had Jean-Marie checked out? Why?'

_Jean-Marie??_ Ros and Lucas exchange a look. They had noticed of course that Ruth had been having a long conversation, then a dance, with this man. Still…this instant familiarity is not really like her.

Harry looks away. His tone is brusque, masking his uncertainty. 'You spent a lot of time with him last night. I wanted to make sure that he was…'

'I see. So I take it that you had the Russian diplomat who was sitting next to you checked out as well? Tariq? What do we know about him?'

'Erh,well, I wasn't asked…'

'We do not need to check him because his sitting next to me was none of his doing.', Harry cut in. 'He did not seek me out. De Cointreau did seek you out, and overheard him ask for your phone number, which means he wants to see you again. So yes, I….'

She did not go to sleep til 3am and could only bring herself to getting up at 7. She spent most of the night wrestling with whether or not to talk to Harry, facing up to her deepest feelings and fears, and she's exhausted. 'I see. And did you find anything?', she asks coldly.

Tariq pipes up. 'Nope. Nothing at all. This guy is incredibly boring. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing peculiar…I suppose that makes him perfect relationship material though so you go ahead Ruth', he adds with a mischevious glint in his eyes.

'Tariq', Harry snaps, 'this is out of order.' He takes a deep breath. 'Ruth. I'm sorry. I know I should have….'

'Did you really think he might want to…that he suspected that I might be working for…' She is igoring all the others, Tariq's bemused face, Lucas' speculating look, Ros' frowning. All that matters, right now, is the man sitting at the head of the table.

'Ruth, in case you had forgotten, we are grappling with an enemy, an organisation, which we know very little about except that it is evil. So yes, if someone who is new to London makes a point of wanting to get close to one of my staff out…'

'One of your _staff_. Come on. How could he have known that I was not who I claimed I am…' Her anger is gathering pace.

'Is seeking my staff out', he overrides her, 'I want to know why. I want to know who they are, what they are up to, and why they are so keen to…socialise with them. It's my job, it's my responsibility.' He is aware of what this sounds like – a flimsy excuse, a thin rationalisation of out-of-character behaviour. So are Lucas and Ros. Tariq is oblivious, because he is too young. Ruth is oblivious too, because through her exhaustion, all she can hear is the coldness in his voice, the ruthlessness of the man, and his high-handedness, the fact that he would do this behind her back, without even saying anything to her, infuriates her.

'I see. But you did not find anything.' He nods, hating how icy her voice, normally so warm, so soft for him is. 'Good', she continues. 'So I have your blessing then?' He looks at her, uncomprehendingly. 'To see him again', she clarifies. 'I mean, if there's nothing then it's all safe and inocuous. So surely you can have no objection to my seeing him again. Can you?', she challenges him.

He clenches his teeth. He has to force every single word out of his throat. But what else can he say, in front of the team, if he must keep appearances for them? 'What you do with your own life outside work is none of my business', he states, flatly, wearily. 'Now, back to Nightingale. Tariq, Ruth, everything you can possibly find out about this Indian diplomat. And about the Home Secretary, come to think of it. We should have done that earlier. Lucas, Ros…' He allocates tasks, they decide on a plan of action, and he rises, heavily, to signal that the meeting is over. 'We reconvene mid afternoon.' They file out, Ruth the first one to leave, without so much as a glance in her direction, Ros lingering behind.

In fact, she follows him to his office. She knows better than to say anything at this point. He sinks in his chair. 'Keep an eye on this guy.' She raises her eyebrows. 'He's _too _perfect. Too smooth. Nobody has that easy a path in life…'

'There is of course a very good reason as to why he wanted to see her again',she says, not unkindly. For the first time since Tariq mentioned de Cointreau, he manages to look at her in the face. After all, she knows of his history with Ruth so…'She was stunning last night', Ruth continues, aware that she is twisting a knife in a wound she had not realised was still so deep. 'Have you considered that he might simply find her very attractive?' She knows he has, of course: she could see right through him during that ill fated exchange. But she also knows that Harry cannot afford to let his eye off the ball because he is jealous, and the ball, right now, is Nightingale. She glances in Ruth's direction, and notices that Harry follows her gaze. Ruth is sitting at her desk, head bowed, still, not doing anything. 'Harry, why don't you go and _talk _to her?'

What's the point? He still cannot quite understand how they shifted so quickly from the promise of a future at 7:30pm last night to… this. What he does understand is that he is an overweight 55 year old who could never told her he loved her, who is emotionally stunted, who caused her partner to die, who…he turns away from Ros, away from the window pane through which he can see Ros.

And as Ros leaves, he makes a resolution. From now on, however much it will cost him, he will remain utterly, strictly professional with her. No more invitations to join him and Wes on outings. No more shared looks and flashes of deep mutual understanding at work….

No more of that.


	9. Chapter 9

8

Returns ch 9

**1.**

It takes two months of brutal, punishing work, to figure out Nightingale – or the gist of it. Two months during which they leave the office only to go on surveillance or snatch a few hours of sleep at night, do not see any of their friends or colleagues from other sections, live, breathe Nightingale. On Harry's instructions, they do not tell anyone, not even within the service, what they are doing: the tentacles of the conspiracy – for it is a conspiracy - may reach too deeply for that. Only one person knows: Cordelia Granville. Harry needed to be sure of her, so he organised a meeting with the former Home Secretary, at the house he owns on the Norfolk coast, and to which no one, in the service, has even been invited. His own private retreat. And in the long walk which they took on the beach, having made sure that they were not followed, the disgraced politician told Harry that he had engineered Granville's appointment precisely because he was absolutely certain of her and that he had confidence that she would give Harry full support to thwart Nightingale. _She is a true democrat, Harry, I've known her since university….and as much as one can be sure of anyone, this is not a cover. So you can talk to her about it. But only her, for now, I think…_ _And you, what will you do next? _Harry had asked. He still remembers the look of defeat in the former HS' eyes. _There's nothing I can do. You won't be able to prove that I had nothing to do with this, unless you get a confession from someone. _ _And if we do? _Harry asked. _Well, in that case, I will return to politics. But until then…until then, Harry, I am just a disgraced politician in the glare of a judicial inquiry, with a jail sentence hanging over my head if this goes to court. _He'd fallen silent that point. _But whatever happens, Harry, whatever you need from me, contacts, tips…I will always be there. For as long and as much as I can._

And so the team starts by following up on every single titbit of information they gathered at the Ambassadors' ball. They organise their own surveillance - both on foot and electronically – of every person they have reason to think might be part of the conspiracy or if not might lead them further into its reaches. They have to proceed very slowly, very carefully, without arousing suspicions. Harry still holds a daily meeting with Cordelia, in her office, but also holds another, shadow meeting with her, every day, either at her house, or at his, both of which have been cleared free of bugs by Lucas.

They discover that the Indian High Commission's third secretary belongs to an extremist Hindu group, _and _belongs to a highly secretive part of his country's secret services – so secretive in fact that the head of India's IS in London is not even aware of it. They figure out that the American and Chinese consuls were students at the same time at the Harvard Kennedy School of Government, and that they both have ties to the oil industry.

By sheer dint of luck and hard work, they also discover that the Home Secretary used to have links with a far-right student association back in his university days, and that he still socialises with some of those individuals – now all highly respected bankers, lawyers, police officers, army officers even. And one of those individuals, who was a student at the same time and in the same university, on an exchange programme, is the charming, handsome French cultural attaché. Following up the trail, they find that de Cointreau used to belong to a vociferous National Front student union back in law school.

Ruth heard the news in stony silence. Not that she had had any intention of going out with him. She knows whom she loves, and has no desire to move on. But she cannot stand the look of sympathy which Tariq, who alone does not know of her and Harry's history, throws her. She cannot stand the way Ros and Lucas studiously avoid looking at her, or Harry, during this particular discussion.

Most of all, she can't stand Harry's impassive face. She used to look forward to going to work, and now, it's torture. Since the night of the ball, he has been behaving very courteously, very politely, towards her. He no longer smiles at her, he only looks at her if he has to, he no longer lingers by her desk. On the weekends when he has had Wes (the only thing on which he will not compromise), he has never once asked her along. He is with her exactly as he is with the others. No less, no more. The ball is fading back into the past, a dream, an echo of what might have been, ever more faint, ever more distant.

And yet – she loves him. She always has. She has finally stopped fighting it. She now acknowledges it, and confronts fully, for the very first time, its implications: the fact that her life with George was built on so many lies, the fact too that something broke during the night of the ball, and that she does not know how to repair it. Is losing the will to repair it, in fact.

And so she makes a decision. She will stay on at the service until they expose the conspiracy. But then, she will leave. She is only 40, she has a life to live ahead of her, away from a man who could never give her what she wanted, whom she no longer has the strength and courage to even try to meet half way.

She does not have to wait long.

**2.**

After two months, they piece it together. In a nutshell: very secretive and high powered groups of extremely right-wing individuals within the US and China have been engineering a lethal clash, of literally nuclear proportions, between India and Pakistan. The pay-offs: for China, the weakening of the Indian giant in Asia; for the US: the end of Pakistan, massive civil unrest throughout Western capitals which can then be used as pretext to place into power authoritarian regimes. The French attaché, and the British Home Secretary, are part of it. So are countless of others. And the biggest prize of all: an agreement between the two superpowers to sideline Russia, and to divide the spoils between them – Africa's oil reserves. A breathtaking plan, in all its evilness….

So what they need, now, is a strategy: The first part of it consists in bringing to the attention of the Russians, discretely, that they are being sidelined, both politically, economically, and militarily, from both West and East. They hope to convince the Russians to get their special forces to kidnap some of the key members of the conspiracy and fly them to Moscow for interrogation – not politicians, that would be too obvious, but middle rank officers, middle rank corporate executives from the oil companies who can divulge the twists of the conspiracy. The second part consists in weakening those politicians and members of the military who are part of it – in effect, to do to them what was done to the HS's predecessors.

To work out the details of the plan, they meet at the office on a cold, late winter Sunday afternoon. They arrive separately from their respective homes. Including Cordelia Granville, who has to be there for what is, in effect, a war meeting.

As it happens, Cordelia has both good news, and bad news. The good news is that the PM and the upper echelons of the armed forces are not in on the conspiracy. She has had her own, separate surveillance operation conducted on them, with the help of spooks-within-spooks agents who owe her everything, in some cases their life, and whose loyalty to her is unquestionable. The bad news is that the Russians won't do play ball. They go around and around that problem, for two, three hours, without getting anywhere. Slowly, tempers are getting frayed: the stress, the worry, lack of sleep, too much caffeine, the fact that they have spent two months in one another's enforced company…'Bottom line, they're not convinced', Cordelia says, with disgust. 'They want us to dig out more information.'

'We can't', Harry says. 'We're getting more and more exposed ourselves as it is.'

'So we have to change tack. And we're running of time. Ideas anyone?'.

'We've been approaching this the wrong way', Ruth suddenly says. Harry looks at her – properly, at length, for the first time since she has arrived. Her eyes are gritty from fatigue, and her voice is husky. Her eyes are gritty from fatigue, and her voice is husky. She's lost weight, he suddenly realises with a pang. How did I not see this before? He treasures those moments when she is not looking at him and when he can watch her without being caught. They keep him going, those moments, through the long lonely evenings. They make it possible for him to exercise supreme self-control when they have to work together, and when he cannot afford to let his emotional guard down. He used to think that he could not bear the thought of not seeing her ever again. But now, it's a relief when he does not see her because only then can he feel himself relax. He thought, after the ball, that he would get used to the distance between them. In fact, he is like a coil that is getting increasingly wound up, and which is about to snap.

Ros' voice brings back to the meeting. He shakes himself up. 'What do you mean, we've been approaching this the wrong way?'

'Nightingale…it's a hydra. And you destroy a hydra by cutting its head off. Not by going after the limbs', she says flatly.

'We _can't_ go for the head', Harry interjects. 'What would you have us do? Kidnap the home secretary and force a confession from him?' It's his sheer frustration talking, but she hears it as anger towards her for making a stupid suggestion in such a critical time.

She tenses up. But she will go ahead with the idea which has taken hold of her, and with the two bits of information that she managed to dig up 15mns ago on the pretext of needing to go to the bathroom. 'No. I would not have us do that…but listen. They're bound to have one last top-level meeting before it all kicks off. They can't risk communicating by email or phone. It's too risky. We might intercept that.'

Cordelia nods. She can see what Ruth is getting at. 'Good. So we need to know when, and where, they are planning to hold a second Basle meeting, as it were. And then what?'

'We find a way of bugging them', Lucas segues. 'We move in as soon as the meeting is over, before they've even left the building. And with the evidence we'll have…'

'Exactly', Ruth concludes.

'And how do we find out the date and place of the meeting?', Harry inquires. 'There's no big international summit coming up in the next month or so which they could use as cover. It's got to be somewhere remote, but where they can get to and from easily. Private jets, I would assume, with civil aviations guys in their pockets to doctor or erase flight plans.'

'Yes', Ruth concurs. 'Somewhere which all key players can get to within, say, five, seven hours at the most – flying from the US, China, UK, France.'

She activates the world map on the big screen of the conference room. 'I've narrowed it down to ten possible locations.'

'It's too many', Harry says sharply. 'We need to narrow down some more. Especially as we don't have a precise timeframe.'

She wants to say, _Yes, well, pardon me, but in the last 20 mns or so, I've not been able to do that._ She bites it back. 'There's something else', she adds. She hadn't planned to monopolise the discussion so much, especially with Cordelia still watching her, observing, noticing the mounting tension between she and Harry….

'We know that the CEO of International Oil Inc, Frank Delaware, is involved in this. Well, they'll soon be looking for a PA for him.'

'How do you know?', Harry asks. _How on earth does she do this…._

She shrugs. 'Tariq put in a trace on all police and hospital reports on anyone related to the top members of Nightingale. Delaware's PA was run over by a car last night. The info just got in.'

Cornelia's eyes widen. 'I see. And you have just checked that too. Well, Harry, I must say, you're a luck man. Boss, I mean.' Ruth flinches, Harry sees it, and represses the stab of pain that grips him. 'Tariq, can you check again? Triangulate with police reports, hospital reports…'

Five minutes later, Tariq comes back, and nods. 'All confirmed.'

'Suspicious accident?', Harry asks.

'Not clear. The police report mentions skid marks…they're talking about it as a hit and run.'

They fall silent, each reconfiguring the pieces of the jigsaw, wondering how to use this.

Ros breaks the silence. 'We need someone in to take her place. They won't advertise the job: they'll go through a top notch headhunting firm.'

'I've got the right contacts for that', Cordelia says. '_Trustworthy _contacts. And not easily traceable back to me.' She reflects for a few seconds. 'Ros, Lucas, how much time do you need to construct a perfect cover for Ros? They will check absolutely everything. References, experience, background…'

Harry shakes his head. 'It can't be Ros. There's a risk that some of those guys were part of the businessmen who were kidnapped at the meeting Ros was in, months ago.' He stops, his voice catching, memories of Jo's streaming through him. He cannot bring himself to looking at Ros. Or Ruth, for that matter. 'They might recognise her. Even if it's a different company, different people…too risky. Besides, the Home Secretary has seen her once. Her face is too well-known.'

'But mine is not', Ruth states, calmly. 'So I could …'

'No way', he cuts in, abruptly.

'Sorry?'

'No. Way', he repeats, through gritted teeth.

'But Harry, it's the best…'

'Forget it. It's not going to happen.'

He vaguely hears Cordelia and Lucas attempt to put a word in. He does not listen. He does not care. All he cares about right now is the woman sitting across him on the other side of the table, who looks at him angrily, defiantly, eyes blazing.

'Why?', she asks tightly. 'You've said it yourself: Ros cannot go. Would you have Tariq, or Lucas do it? Of course not. I'm the best person…'

'Ruth.', he says very carefully, very slowly, desperately holding on to his self-control, 'you are a desk analyst. Not a field agent. I will not under any circumstances allow you to do this. This hit and run…'surely you must see how dangerous it is!'

'Don't patronize me!' she raises her voice too. 'Yes, somehow, it had occurred to me that this wouldn't be a garden party! But this might be the only chance! Can't _you _see that?!'

'So be it! I will not send you….' He catches himself. 'I will not send _any_ of my desk agents to a field job without the required training! Not for something like this!' The very thought of Ruth in that office, next to one of the most dangerous man in the world, trying to get information which could have her killed…he can't bear it. 'I'm sorry', he says angrily, not sounding sorry at all in fact, 'but your safety is my priority. It's my job! My first responsibility! Can't _you _see that?!'

At that, she snaps 'No, I can't see that. Because, let's face it, Harry, months ago, you were perfectly prepared to have a defenceless boy killed for the sake of national security. Wrapped sense of priority if you ask me.'

She regrets uttering those words as soon as they have left her mouth, as shocked by her own behaviour as Ros, Lucas, Tariq, and even Cordelia are, who all gasp. Harry's face is drained of all blood. He rises from his chair, slowly. His voice has lost his timbre. 'In my office. Now.'

**3. **

'Harry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should never have…'

He does not appear to hear her. He shuts the door, very carefully, and lowers the blinds, and positions himself behind his desk, needing to put as much distance as he can between them.

'Please, Harry', she whispers.

He stares at her without saying anything. However strained things have been between them, he can't believe she had it in her to hurt him as much as she has just done. He keeps staring, unflinchingly, until she can no longer bear his gaze and lowers her head.

He breathes heavily. 'I'm your boss, Ruth. In case you had forgotten.' This is one of the hardest thing he has ever had to do so. 'Whatever…whatever there might once have been between us, I cannot and will not allow you to speak to me like this. Not. Ever. Particularly in front of the team.' He grips the back of the chair, knuckles white under the strain. 'Months ago, I made a decision which got your partner killed. I can't tell anymore what I would have done had Mani threatened to kill Nico. But….' He has to force himself to go on. 'You have to make a choice, Ruth. You have to decide whether you can keep working here, given what happened then.'

He pauses, and remains silent, till she looks up at him. 'You've got fifteen minutes to make up your mind. If you decide that you can't do this, then leave and don't ever come back. But make no mistake: if you stay, then I _will_ _not_ tolerate you challenging my authority. I will not tolerate you bringing him up, _using_ him, to undermine me. Is that clear?'

She nods. He walks around his desk, and opens the door for her. On her way out, as she walks past him, she raises her fingers, tentatively, and brushes his arm. _I'm sorry_, she wants to plead, _I will stay at least for now, and I'm so sorry…_He does not give her time. 'Leave – me – alone', he grinds out, in a low, angry whisper. 'Leave – me – the hell – alone.'

She flinches away from him and walks back to her desk, eyes brimming with tears.

He shuts the door behind her – and in a movement of pure rage, at her, but mostly at himself, sends all the files on his desk flying across the room.


	10. Chapter 10

**Returns ch 10**

**1. **

Barely five minutes have elapsed since Ruth left his office. He can still feel the touch of her fingers on his arm, he can still hear how harsh, final, his rejection of her was. There's a knock on the door, and briefly, for a few seconds he entertains the wild hope that Ruth has come back, that all will be explained and resolved between them…no such luck.

Cordelia looks at the chaos of files, pens, staplers on the floor. Without waiting for his invitation, she sits down in one of the visitors' chairs. Under any other circumstances, she would be amused. But not now, not when there is so much at stake. 'Whatever happened in here', she starts bluntly, 'I need to be sure that your relationship with Ruth Evershed will not….'

'We don't have one', he cuts in.

'So I gathered', she replies coolly. 'So let me start again. That your _non _relationship with Ruth will not jeopardise this operation. We can't afford to waste any more time. And we can't afford to be distracted by…by personal feelings. Whatever those feelings might be.'

He nods, wordlessly. 'Good', she continues. 'In that case, you must see that she is right. No, let me finish. We worked out the safest way to do this, while you two were having it out. It's not ideal, but she is the best person we have to put in there. Ros and Tariq can construct a cover for her. Papers, background, professional experience…we went through the main points and…'

He clenches his teeth. 'She has not done firearm training in years, she barely sets foot inside the gym as far as I can tell, she…If they sense that something is wrong, they will make her talk. They will torture her…and she will break. Believe me, she will.' He pauses, then adds, painfully, 'Everyone does in the end. Or they don't – but that's because the torturer miscalculates and they die. You know that.'

'Then we have to make sure that they don't have any suspicions. And we need to provide her with backup.'

He shakes his head. 'How? What kind of backup? We've checked out all properties around that company. No flat for sale or rent nearby for months – in fact that's one of the things which we thought was odd about this company. We think that they have bought most of the neighbourhood via shell companies precisely to avoid surveillance. So we can't move in. Besides, De Cointreau knows her. I know he's never set foot in International Oil but still…'

'We've started developping a few thoughts on that. Come on, let's join the others.'

They make their way to the conference room. He starts: Ruth is sitting there, staring vacantly into space. At the sound of his footsteps, she looks up, meets his eyes squarely and averts her face. _I'm here. I'm staying, at least for now, and you have nothing to worry about. I will not challenge your authority_…He takes his place again at the head of the table. 'Come on', he says, wearily, 'let's hear it. I want us to cover all possible angles, everything that might go wrong, any problem….'

They talk it through overnight. By the morning, they have a plan.

**2. **

She starts in her new job as Delaware's PA two weeks later. They were in a hurry to recruit, Cordelia's contacts at various headhuntings firms came through. They do not know why they were asked this favour by the head of MI5, they don't even know that this woman who comes highly recommended by her is a member of the secret services – but don't care. Services rendered, favours repaid…the vast web of contacts that Cordelia has constructed for thirty years clicks into gear.

They solved the problem of the French attaché very simply. He was out of the country anyway when Ruth was interviewed, which helped. To tie him up back in France, Cordelia contacted the head of the French Intelligence Services – after having him checked out by MI 5. He is not a member of Nightingale, as far as they can tell. So she only says that they have suspicions that he might be in the pay of the Chinese, and would it not be propitious if his villa in Corsica, with family paintings and 18th century furniture, were blown up by independist terrorist movements…he would have to go, obviously, and deal with paperwork, officialdom, etc. Ten days at least. Then it's the summit of Francophone countries, in Senegal, which he has to attend…In effect, they manage to keep him out of London for close to a month – by which point they hope to have the information they need.

She is not to do anything that might alert them. She is not to break into any computer, to make any photocopies, or to ask any questions. She is not even to phone anyone on the team to report back anything. She has been rehoused in a MI five house but on paper is the owner: fake mortgage deeds, in case they check. Which they do. In fact, International Oil Inc. have checked her out very thoroughly: address, relatives (all dead, except one aunt, whom they visited – played by a long forgotten MI 5 asset.) University friends. References. Previous jobs. University record. Lucas shrewdly suggested that they not make her too perfect, too good – that too would put them on the alert. So they have given him a long dead boyfriend who died of an overdose – a manufactured coroner's report is available should they check – which they do: these people have resources and means which exceed anything that the team had imagined.

She is only there to serve as a transmitter of information. She has been fitted with a minute recorder, lodged into a cameo which she wears as a necklace – a family heirloom, she says when asked. Their hope, flimsy, tenuous, is that Delaware will say something, cancel an appointment, do something unusual, which they will be able to triangulate with other bits of information. If it works, they will be given the day, time and place of the last Nightingale meeting before the storm.

The one thing that they have not been able to do is provide backup for Ruth on site. If anything happens, she is on her own. Meanwhile, all they can do, is wait.

**3. **

The first three weeks, nothing happens. She does her job well, efficiently, and correctly. She handles Delaware's diary, oversees a secretarial staff of ten people, and liaises with similar staff of the firm's main clients. It's as if she has always done this kind of job – though all she took was two weeksn of non stop rehearsing and practicing with the team. Delaware goes about the business of being the CEO of one of the most powerful companies in the world, and gives absolutely nothing away. They can hear him through Ruth's transmitter: curteous, polite, friendly, never a word out of turn.

What they cannot figure out is how he communicates with the others. His staff handles all his emails; the calls he gives from his mobile phones are all intercepted by Tariq. He goes to meetings which his professional diary lists, he fulfills the many charity engagements a man of his position has to fulfill – and at which he does not meet any of the other members of the conspiracy – that much, they can check. He does not have a family, and is barely at his home: when there he goes online but they have managed to get inside his machine remotely without getting detected – Tariq's genius at work. He boards the flights he is scheduled to board – they always check that as well, by mounting surveillance at the relevant airports or using satellite imaging. There is no interstice, no part of this man's life which is not somehow accounted for.

And that's precisely why they keep going with it, and do not pull Ruth out: it's too perfect, too precise, too smooth. Delaware leads the life of someone who thinks that he might be under surveillance, and who wants to leave nothing to chance. And that, in fact, is his mistake. But after three weeks during which nothing happens, they conclude that the details of the meeting were sorted out by its main participants, long before Ruth got in. Their best option, in that case, is to leave Ruth in place just in case, and to follow Delaware wherever he goes, hoping that the guards he has hired for his protection, two of whom the team has spotted, will not realise that there is anything amiss.

But after three weeks, Ruth has had enough. And she decides to push it. Without consulting the team of course; she has not had contact with any of them in all that time. But the time has come, she thinks, to take the initiative. For a start, they are not getting anywhere. But also, she can't take much more of this. – having to live a lie, to pretend that she is what she is not, to have to watch out her every step, her every word….the hours are long and brutal, so that all she has the time to do after work is go home, which is not even her own home, and sleep. Except on Monday nights, where she goes to choir practice: not her usual choir of course, another one, but at least, during rehearsals –Beethoven's 9th symphony - she can be herself, and forget about the strange life that she is leading. Most of all, she can forget about Harry.

Because otherwise, other than being the perfect PA all she can think about is Harry. She hasn't seen him since after their long planning meeting – since that awful moment in his office. She can still remember the anger radiating from him, the fury in his eyes, and the tone of his voice – _leave me_ _the hell alone, Ruth – _when he rejected her attempt at apologising for her comment on Nico. And she cannot forgive herself for that comment. She would give everything she has to take it back. But she can't do that so all she can do is live with the memories of what might have been, in another time, another world.

She wants to leave the service, as soon as possible. National emergency and her own interests combine perfectly to make her want to get this over, and done with.

Even though she knows that Harry is very unlikely to be impressed with what she is about to do.


	11. Chapter 11

5

**Returns ch 11**

**Glad you are enjoying this… two or three more chapters to come after this one. By the way I missed the last episode of the series and it is no longer available on BBC iPlayer (rrgh.) I gather there was one or two HR moments…would love to see a summary somewhere…if anyone could help, cheers!**

**HRFan**

1.

Tariq frowns. 'Harry', he calls out, 'you'd better come and listen to this.'

Harry puts on the spare headphones, and as he listens to the conversation at the other end between Ruth – who, for the last month now, has worked as Delaware's PA under the alias Susan Debenham, his face, drawn by weeks of sleeplessness, freezes.

'_Ms Debenham' _– they can hear Delaware say, in his cool, clipped, upper class accent – _Would you be able to stay on late tonight by any chance? As you know we are scheduled to hold a video call tomorrow first thing with our Nigeria headquarters. It's sensitive and I would like to go over a few things with you…_

'_Tonight?__ Yes, of course, it's just that…it's fine. Really.'_

'_Did you have a prior commitment?' Delaware's tone is impersonal, but polite._

'_I'm singing in the North London choir and our rehearsals are on Mondays. But it's OK, I can miss it tonight.'_

'_Oh. I see…what's the piece?'_

'_Beethoven's 9__th__ symphony.'_

'_I used to sing in a choir myself', _Delaware muses. _'Years ago, at university…'_ His tone is wistful. They start discussing classical music, an amiable exchange between two people who so far only related in a strictly professional manner. And yet, Harry blanches. 'What is she doing?' he hisses. 'She was under strict instructions not to volunteer any kind of personal information!'

'Harry, it will check out', Ros cuts in. 'If they ring up the choir they will be told that Susan Debenham joined six months ago and is already one of their star alto singers. Tariq', she instructs the younger man, 'run a check on Oxford choir memberships going back thirty years. Start with his College.' She turns to Harry, 'look, she is drawing him out. And frankly, that's our only hope at this point.'

Harry shakes his head. 'It's too dangerous', he mutters between clemched teeth. 'All she needed to do was to be there, so that we could listen in…'

'She is doing what all good field agents do', Ros counters, 'she is taking the initiative.' And if it were either me or Lucas, she thinks silently, you would not be standing there angry and frustrated but because it's Ruth….but she keeps her counsel.

In the days that follow, they notice, listening in, that Delaware spends more time chatting to Ruth in the morning when he comes in. He asks her about the choir practice, the next concert, what her plans are for the upcoming holidays…he volunteers very little himself, but it is obvious that Ruth, by proceeding very slowly, very carefully, is getting him to open up – about his failed marriage, his non existent relationship with his children, his love for classical music…

And throughout those conversations, Harry listens, and ponders, and analyses, hating the obvious warmth in Delaware's voice as he talks to Ruth every day, hating the fact that this monster enjoys the privilege of seeing her every day, hooked on the sound of her voice, angry with her for ignoring his specific instructions, immensely proud of her skills, above all terrified that they will blow her cover. The strain is intolerable – unlike anything he has known before – worse in fact than when she left three and a half years before. For now she is both tantalizingly close, and impossibly far, and there is nothing he can do to help if she makes one mistake and gets found out.

**2. **

Although Delaware is more open with her, he still gives her nothing which the team, listening at Thames House, can take as a clue for Nightingale's final meeting. She knows that she went outside the agreed script, and put herself at risk for perhaps nothing, and is beginning to despair.

Delaware greets her one morning, warmly. She responds in kind, inwardly clenching with disgust.

'When is your concert?', he asks curiously.

'Three weeks from now, on the 15th', she answers.

'Albert Hall, is it? You're lucky. An impressive concert hall for an impressive piece…' he add wistfully.

She thinks for two seconds, imagining Harry's reaction when Tariq reports back to him in five mns. 'Sir' – acting the shy, highly efficient but repressed PA – 'I wouldn't be offended if you said no but…I have a spare ticket. Would you like to come?'

He stares at her, frowning. At at Thames House, Harry breaks a pencil into two pieces. 'Sorry', she stammers, heart racing in her chest, 'I didn't mean to be so forward, but my boyfriend can't make it after all and….'

'Your boyfriend?', Delware asks. 'You haven't mentioned him before. What does he do?'

She looks away, playing up the shy, blushing, private person – not too far from what she really is, in fact. 'Oh, he works in the city as an IT engineer. He's got to go to New York that weekend for work.' He asks a few more questions, she fills in the details, praying that Tariq is writing everything down. And back at Thames House, Harry, Ros and Tariq look at each other. 'S…t', Ros mutters, 'we didn't give her a boyfriend.' Tariq, as soon as they finish talking, construct the boyfriend.' She pretends not to notice Harry's hands gripping the back of Tariq's chair.

'Please Sir, forget I asked. You're very busy and….'

'Well, normally, Susan' – it is the first time that he is using her first name – ' I would love to come. Unfortunately, I can't make it on that occasion. Some other time perhaps?'

She nods, outwardly looking pleased at the curteous tone of his response, inwardly unable to believe that this might be the breakthrough they have all been waiting for.

Because his diary, she knows, is supposed to be full until 2pm that day, but empty for that night, til 8am the next morning. One afternoon and one evening: the only time, since she has started working for him, that his time is unaccounted for. And he lied about it.

So now, it's up to the team.

**3. **

Miraculously, Tariq manages to conjure up Susan Debenham's boyfriend out of thin air in half a day: one of their assets in the company the boyfriend is supposed to work for will play the part. All the documents (passport, birth certificates, degree qualifications) are produced in time – two hours before they get wind of discrete inquiries made by one of Delaware's assistants – himself probably a member of Nightingale - into this man's details. A very close shave, this time. But Harry can't afford to dwell on the risk which Ruth took. For now, they have a possible date for a meeting. They triangulate the timeframe – 2pm on the 15th til 8am on the 16th – for Delaware's absence, with the ten possible locations identified by Ruth weeks before and the departure points of other members of the conspiracy, and intensify their surveillance on the key members of the plot.

'We've got them', Harry finally announces, stretching his back tiredly. 'The only possibility is the Brough of Birsay. Tiny Scottish island, accessible on foot at low tide, by boat at high tide. Small romanesque church, an unmanded lighthouse, a few ruined buildings.'

'This is bad news', Lucas states. 'It's so small they are bound to spot us. By the time they all make it, it will be low tide. I reckon that they will come by a combination of plane and boat from their departure points, and land on foot. By the time they are all in, the tide will be high, and there's no way we can approach by boat.'

'It will be dark' Ros points out. 'They wouldn't see us.'

'No, but they will hear the motor. There;s no other way to get in.'

Harry raises his hand to silence them and pulls out his phone. He places three phone calls. When he hangs up, his collaborators look at him with newfound respect. Gone – at least for the moment – is the torn, anguished Harry they have come to discover, whose naked fear at Ruth's fear he could not disguise. The Harry they have in front of them is cold, ruthless, and formidable. 'Basically' Ros summarises succintly, 'you have just got the PM to authorise the use of a submarine to drop a team of 25 highly trained Royal Marines as well as Lucas and me a mile off the island, and the Met Commissioner to arrest every known Nightingale member in London. All of that in the last 10mns, greenlighted by our esteemed head of MI5. And Ruth?'

Harry's composure slips a notch. He stares downwards at the conference table. 'She needs to stay in place until the end. Otherwise…' He doesn't need to say more: pulling Ruth out now would inevitably arouse suspicions.

'Can we at least somehow tell her that it's almost over?' Tariq pleads. He has grown fond of Ruth, listening to her going about her work as PA all day long, increasingly aware of what she is risking.

'No', Harry cuts in, bluntly. 'We can't afford to do anything differently. We pull her only when the main Nightingale players are under arrest and locked up.'

'But she won't even….'

'Tariq'. Harry's tone of voice silences him. 'Believe me', Harry says, 'I want her back here, safe, with us. More than you can possibly imagine.' He looks away, aware that he has revealed too much to his staff in the last months. And he doesn't care. 'But… the best way to protect her is to let her do what she has done so well for another three weeks. And then…'

'Then?' Ros asks softly.

'I will go and get her myself', he says simply.


	12. Chapter 12

5

**Returns ch 12**

**1. **

She has absolutely no idea whether the team had the same gut feeling – that the 15th is when the Nightingale meeting is due to take place. They have not been in touch with her, and their silence, though understandable, is oppressive. As the fatal day draws near, she finds it increasingly hard to sleep. She tosses around for hours before falling into a fitful doze, from which she is woken up by nightmares – of George being shot, of Nico under threat, of Harry's anger towards her…

She has not changed her mind: she will leave as soon as this is over. She loves her job, really, and for all that she misses the simplicity of her life in Cyprus, she does not think that she can go back to doing simple, undemanding tasks. Harry was right: she was made for more than that. But the price to pay for staying at Thames House – seeing Harry day after day, locked in her feelings for him which he obviously is no longer reciprocating – is too high. Still, that day when she will finally be able to walk away from him, from her failure, with him, as a woman, is eluding her, prisoner as she is of her self-imposed exile into the field.

And now that she thinks that the day of her concert is actually the day they have been searching for, she cannot even find pleasure in the music. Beethoven's Ode to Joy, that marvellous song of hope and happiness, seems vacuous, toneless, the utopian aspiration of a man who could not even hear the music he was composing, Deafness…she mulls over darkly. I was deaf to what I felt for Harry, he too in a way, and look where that got us.

She is tempted to give up, not to go to the concert but knows that she cannot change her routine. To the bitter end she has to remain Susan Debenham, lonely, shy, typical spinster singing in a choir…

And so on the appointed day, with no news from Ros, Lucas, Tariq, let alone Harry whom she has not seen or talked to for weeks now, she puts on her black singing dress, adorns her neck with a simple necklace, applies a touch of make up…She takes her place in the choir, front row of the altos, rises with all the singers as the conductor makes his way to the podium, and as the first notes of Beethoven's last symphony cascade down, softly at first, then crashingly, she cannot help wonder where Delaware is, whether tonight _is _the night, where Harry is….

The orchestra plays in a blur. The male soloist takes his cue, it is soon time for the choir to follow suit…the Ode to Joy begins to resound in the vastness of the Royal Albert Hall, and Ruth finds her voice at last, her body, her heart, her mind, her soul invested in the music…and she realises one thing: that even if tonight is not the night, even if India and Pakistan are heading for a nuclear war, tonight, she is alive, and singing, and she is lucky, for those precious moments, to live in a world in which the beauty of Beethoven's music is possible - a world in which, through the music, she can cry for Jo, for George, for Nico, for the loss of anything that might have happened with Harry, and for what might have been.

She is oblivious to the concerned glances which the singer standing next to her through in her direction. She is not even really aware of the tears in her eyes. Just the music and, for tonight, only the music.

**2. **

'Harry, it's Ros.'

'So?'

'It's over', she says simply. 'We've got all of them, about an hour after they started. What we have on tape is enough to send them to jail for life.'

'The Home Secretary?' he asks curtly.

'He wasn't there.' A pause, then, 'you know, we might have to accept that he is innocent in all this.'

'We'll see'. He remains unconvinced, somehow. 'Ros, I want you and Lucas to escort all the prisoners back here. Then take half a day off. Briefing tomorrow afternoon at 4pm.'

'Half a day?' she drolls, 'my God. I don't even remember what that feels like. What shall I do with myself?'

He chuckles, wearily, the first spark of amusement he has felt in months.

'Will Ruth be there?', Ros asks, straightforwardly.

He tenses up. 'I don't know', he admits wearily. 'We will pull her out tonight but…look, I'll see you tomorrow OK?'

He hangs up, and looks at his watch. 7:30pm…On an impulse, he places another phone call, and grabs his coat. 'To the Royal Albert Hall', he instructs the driver. 'Drop me at the main entrance, and wait for me at the artists exit.' The concert must be about to start. As far as they know, Ruth, as Susan Debenham, had every intention of taking part in it. He will leave her a margin of safety, and pick her up at the end.

He tries not to think too far ahead, to that moment when he will see her for the first time in weeks. He can still hear the last words he spoke to her, angry, harsh, final, and he can almost feel the touch of her hand on his arm as she left his office….He knows that he cannot go on working with her. And given all that she has lost already because of him, he simply cannot ask for her to be transferred away: it is up to him really to go. He has considered taking a long leave, to spend more time with Wes, take some trips to Europe, but he knows that this is only postponing the inevitable. So his mind is made up: he will take early retirement, learn to enjoy life away from the service, and do the best he can without being properly fulfilled. He does not really see how he can do this, but the price to pay for carrying on at Thames House is simply too high.

The car is pulling in front of the Royal Albert Hall, interrupting his dark musings. The concert is well underway, but a quick flash of his card to the doormen lets him in. He finds a seat on the side of the hall, and quickly spots her. He cannot tear his eyes away from her. She is not singing, the choir has not come in yet, and yet she is sitting in absolute concentration, utterly absorbed in the music.

It's the first time in weeks, since the Ambassadors' Ball in fact, that he has an opportunity to sit somewhere and listen – just listen – to music which he loves, with no phone to distract him, no email, only the music. He allows himself to be taken into Beethoven's tortuous and ultimately joyous world, and as the singers rise and their voices soar in unison above the orchestra, he thinks of Adam, Fiona, Jo, Zaf….of Wes, whom he is trying to parent well, of Ruth, who is singing without looking at her score, entirely lost in the music and inaccessible to him, of his dead son, of his failures as a husband, as a man…over those who die every year in meaningless conflicts and whom no one can save… and his eyes fill with tears.

**3.**

Wearily, heavily, the musical magic of the last half hour already a distant memory, she gets her coat from the artists cloakroom, oblivious to other singers' chatter, her mind already on what might, or might not, have happened tonight with Nightingale, dreading the prospect of going back to 'work' tomorrow only to face the smiling and unconcerned face of Delaware….

She lets herself out of the theatre, and stands in the shadow of its imposing dome, feeling but not enjoying the breeze of the spring night. She can hear footsteps on her right, and turns round quickly, defensively.

'Hello, Ruth.'

All she can do is stare at him, unable fully to comprehend what his presence tonight, here in all places, can mean. And suddenly, it hits her. 'It's over?' she asks tremously.

He walks over to her, and stands as close as he possibly can. 'It's over', he confirms softly. He scans her face avidly, as if to engrave it in his memory.

She closes her eyes. 'Thank God', she whispers, 'thank God…' She sways, and he puts his hand on her arm to stabilise her. 'I've come to get you out', he says. 'I wanted to tell you myself…without you…' He stops. She's started shaking and is not really taking it in.

'Would you like to go home?' he asks. 'I mean, your real home, not the safe house.'

'Home? Yes. Yes. I can…I can get a cab', but I don't have my keys and…', she is rambling, not really knowing what she is saying, not fully realising that her nightmare has just ended.

'Don't be silly, Ruth. I'm giving you a lift. And I have your keys. I took them from the office's safe. Your passport too in fact.'

He steers her towards his car, his bulk protecting her from whomever might be lurking in the shadows, and gives instructions to the driver. In the car, he updates her concisely on all that they have done in the last few weeks – he is factual, precise, almost formal, partly because now is not the place for outpouring, but also because he senses, intuitively, that this is what she needs at the moment.

He opens the door for her, and she immediately takes in the fresh, clean smell of the place. 'Have you…?'

He looks away. 'I asked our regular cleaning company to come and go over it. After several weeks….we couldn't let you move in just like that…it's been debugged as well. And there's some food in the fridge. Tea, milk…'

She smiles wryly, her first smile at him in weeks. 'Teabags and debugging…that's the service for you…Thanks Harry', she softly.

She leads him to her kitchen, and it occurs to her that he has never been here before. In the light of the room, she notices the changes in him. He has lost weight, his hair is slighly greyer, the circles under his eyes deeper. 'Would you like some tea?' she asks.

He drinks in the sight of her, taller somehow in her black singing gown. 'Tea would be lovely.'

They fall silent as she makes the tea – not the companionable silence of two people who are at ease with each other, but the heavy, tense silence of too many unsaid things, and of angry and bitter memories.

They go and sit in her living room, each perched stiffly on one end of the one and only sofa. He likes it here. Though it is dark outside he can tell that, during the day, filled with light, it is both bright and airy, with rows of books and CDs to give it warmth. Comfortable armed chairs…It's a lovely and lived-in room, which shows the personality of its owner.

The silence becomes heavier. One of them, soon, will have to break it…. Both of them too scared to break it.

He clears his throat.


	13. Chapter 13

7

**Returns ch 13**

**And this is it, the final chapter…many thanks for all your constructive reviews!**

**HRFan**

'Ruth…'

She looks at him, hands tight around her mug of tea, grateful that he managed to break the oppressive silence between them.

'Without you', he says, with difficulty, 'we wouldn't have been able to do this. I can't even begin to tell you how grateful we all are for what you did. I spoke to the PM earlier tonight. He will want to talk to you himself, I know….but he's asked me to express his gratitude and….' He stops. He knows he sounds stiff and formal, but the alternative is to let loose and pour his heart out, and there is no way he will burden her with unwelcome confessions. 'I owe you an apology', he adds. 'When you suggested it, I…the truth is…I didn't think….'

The memories of that conversation are too raw, to painful for her to hear this calmly. 'You didn't trust me to be out in the field', she cuts in. 'I can't blame you. But I'm not sorry for going off script. Drawing Delaware out was the only way, frankly, and I know I challenged your authority by doing that. I know how angry you must have felt but for that, I can't…'

'Angry?', his voice rises. 'You think I was _angry?_ My God. 'Angry' does not even begin to describe how I felt, Ruth.' He gets up and walks to the window, absent-mindedly watching the street in the darkness. 'I was terrified', he says softly, his back turned to her.

She doesn't hear him. 'I've decided to leave the service', she blurts out. He swivels around and stares at her, dumbfounded. 'But why? Ruth, you're so good at it! Not merely as a desk analyst, but what you did, those last few weeks…why do you want to leave?!'

She is gripping her mug so hard that she is afraid she might break it. What can she say? I love you, and can't bear to work alongside you anymore? Of course not. And yet, he did so much to have her reinstated that she owes him an explanation. 'Since I came back from Cyprus', she says slowly, hesitantly, aware of his eyes on her never leaving her face, 'it's been….very hard. I have felt as if I do not belong here anymore. And I feel so guilty, all the time, about George, about Nico….' Not quite the truth, but close enough, she tells herself, desperately wanting him to go, to leave her alone, so that she can at last let her tears flow.

If she were looking at him, properly, she would see how pale his face has become. 'I understand', he says in a very low, very strained voice. 'I lost my son. Friends too. And if I had to work day in day out with the person who is responsible for their death…I wouldn't be able to stand it.' He stops, hands jammed into fists in his pockets. 'And if _ I _were to leave, Ruth, would you stay?'

She starts. '_You? _Leave MI5? To go where? And why would…?'

'To take early retirement. I've been thinking about it.'

'_Early retirement?_ _You?!_'

'There is more to me than the service, Ruth', he grinds out. 'Anyway.' He takes a deep breath. 'I don't want you to feel you have to leave because of me. Because you can't stand working with me. You've been through so much already…'

And suddenly it hits her – that he thinks she can't bear to stay in section D because she holds him responsible for George's death, for Nico….and she can't do this anymore. However much she wants to protect herself, she loves him too much let him think that. 'Oh Harry… it's not that.' He looks dubious. 'I don't hold you responsible, Harry. You _must _believe me.' She pauses, then, painfully, 'I'm sorry for what I said to you at the time. About Nico. That was unforgivable.' She turns away from him slightly. How much more pain, she thinks bleakly, how much more pain can we carry on inflicting on each other. 'I was angry with you, and I wanted to…oh, I don't know. But there hasn't been a day I haven't regretted saying it. And you have every right to be angry with me for it.'

'I'm not angry. Not anymore. But then I don't really understand why you want to leave' he says, defeated. 'You obviously love your work – at least the desk analysis part of it. You're made for it. And the last few weeks have shown how good you are in the field, at least certain kinds of fieldwork so…'

'I'd had lots of practice', she cuts in bitterly, finally meeting his gaze, aware that she is venturing in very unsafe territory. 'At living a lie', she clarifies.

'I don't understand'.

'When I was working in that company, pretending to be what I am not…I was living a lie. As I had done for three years before coming back.'

'But…I thought you were happy there', he says cautiously, 'that your life was….how did you put it? Elegant and simple. I thought that…you were… happy with George.'

'I was…content. We _did_ have companionship, and intimacy….at least as much as you can have when one of you is completely unaware of what the other is. Of _who _the other is. I never told him, you see….about what I was doing before. About why I was in Cyprus…' Her eyes glisten with tears. 'And I feel so guilty', she repeats, brokenly.

He looks at her, unflinchingly, a fragile, tiny spark of hope in his heart. He sits on the sofa, not too close, not too far either, and finally finds the courage to raise, once again, the question which has been torturing him for months, and which she refused to answer the first time he asked it. 'Did you love him?'

She remains silent for so long that he fears she, once again, demur. 'No', she says at last, in obvious pain. 'I was very…attracted to him. I cared for him. But I didn't love him. So you see…in that respect too, I was living a lie.'

'Did he know?'

'Yes. I think so….I never once told him I loved him.'

'So, not a lie, then.'

She fiddles with the frayed end of a cushion cover. 'Ah. But he didn't know that I….' She stops abruptly. 'Anyway. Now you know that I don't hold you responsible for his death, you have no reason to take early retirement. You're not old enough for it, and you've got so much more to give to this country of ours….'

'No'.

'Sorry?'

'I don't have anything left to give. Or rather…the price is too high.' His mouth feels dry, and this, really, is not at all what he had planned, but he has gone past the point of no return. 'You see', he says slowly, haltingly, without looking at her, 'I love you. I've never stopped loving you really. And I can't take this anymore. Working with you during the day, laughing, joking, wanting you, and knowing that you don't love me…' He still can't bring himself to facing her. 'When you left, three years ago, a little part of me died on that day. I told myself over time that I was over you. That whatever we might have had was in the past. But when Mani brought into that room…' His voice breaks. 'In that one moment, I knew that I had been kidding myself for three years. And if it had been you they had threatened to torture…I wouldn't have lasted half a second.'

'Harry…' There's so much she wants to say, so much she has to process, but he doesn't seem to hear her.

'And then…you came back to the service…. You must have known how I felt the night of the ball, and I wanted you so much. Not merely that way. In every way. I still do. And I can't do this.'

He gets up and moves away from her, back to the window. 'And when you starting drawing Delaware out, I wasn't angry. I was terrified. Every second of every day, I lived in fear for you….' He closes his eyes. 'I _cannot_ stand the pain', he whispers. 'And that's why I have to leave.'

'Harry.'

He turns round: she has risen, and is walking towards him, her eyes brighter, bluer than he has ever seen them, filmed with unshed tears, her face a picture of astonishment. She is standing right in front of him, so close he can inhale her scent. She raises her hands to his face, and slowly traces his features, as she did, on the bank of the Thames, all those years before. He gets holds of her fingers, unable to believe that she might, just might, feel as strongly for him as he does for her. 'It's OK, you don't have to try and make me feel better. God knows I have no claim on your feelings, even if you once felt something', he says. 'And if you don't feel that way about me anymore…then tell me now, Ruth. Tell me now, and I will go, and this will never be spoken about again. But…'

She silences him the only way she knows how: slowly, lingeringly, she kisses him, without pressure, allowing him to decide how and whether to respond. He frames her face between his hands, and loses himself in this, revelling in the feel and taste of her, drawing her body to his.

After an eternity, they break the kiss. 'I was living a lie in Cyprus because George did not know that I loved another man. That I loved _you'_, she says simply. 'I haven't stopped loving you either.'

'But…at the ball, surely you must have..'

She smiles wryly. 'Oh Harry…you were staring at me, watching me, during the concert, and no one had ever looked at me that way. With such intensity. And I wanted you to, but I got scared. Too much, too soon. And then…suddenly you turned all cold and stiff on me. I didn't know what to think anymore.'

'I was jealous. You started chatting with De Cointreau and you were so relaxed, so open with him….', he admits sheepishly.

She shakes her head. 'What a pair we are.'

He bends his head to her, and this time, their kiss is longer, more intense, more searching. Yet, he draws away first. 'Ruth. I am a middle aged man. My marriage was a spectacular failure, and you know better than anyone how…limited, how repressed I can be. Are you sure that…?' he asks urgently.

'I'm sure', she says simply. 'More sure than of anything else.'

'And Nico?'

She does not like this. 'Harry, we don't need to…'

He shakes his head. 'We do. Because otherwise, it will always be there, between us and….I told you once I could no longer be sure of what I would have done. I still believe that: I still do not _know_. Can you live with that? With that uncertainty?'

She looks at him for a very long time. 'Yes. I can. Because you see…you might not know what you would have done then. But _I_ know that if you had the same choice today…you would not let him die.'

'How can you be so sure?', he asks painfully.

'Because of Wes', she states calmly. 'Because you know, once more, what it is like to care for a child.'

And at that, tears spring to his eyes. 'Yes, I do', he whispers. He strokes her cheek. 'I want to tell you something. Something difficult, but I want you to know this.' He takes a deep breath. 'It's been a very long time for me. In every way. Do you understand? I simply don't know whether I can give you what you had with…with him.'

Her smile is luminous. 'You know, it's true what they say. That it's like riding a bicycle. You never really forget.'

'Ah. But I have never been really good at cycling', his jocular tone not really masking his fear.

She is not used to the Harry standing in front of her, scared, vulnerable, so trustingly open too. And for all that she matured and shed her shy and naïve skin while she was away, she is not used to having the upper hand with him, to being the more experienced, the more knowing of the two. 'But there is another thing they say', she adds playfully, but with a hint of seriousness. 'Two things in fact. That a lot depends on whether the bicycle suits you. And that it is a matter of practice. Lots of practice.'

He guffaws. 'Well, I have no doubt about the suitability of the…bicycle. As for practice…' Without him realising it, his voice has gone softer, lower, 'I am all yours. Whenever you're ready.'

She blushes. 'Perhaps not…'

'No, not now. Of course not. Now is not the time. But…Ruth?'

'Yes?'

'When it happens…, when we decide to…' – he pauses, he was going to say 'when we decide to go cycling', but he realises that he no longer wants to hide behind words. 'When we make love, to me it will mean that this is it. The end of the road. You need to know that.'

She looks at him questioningly. 'I haven't looked at another woman in five years, Ruth', he clarifies, 'not since I first realised I love you. There hasn't been anyone else, and there won't be. Ever. So when we make love…I will be _giving_ myself to you. Completely.'

Her lips tremble. 'And I to you, Harry. I, to you…'

'Forever, my love?', he asks, gripped with sudden emotion.

'Forever', she replies. 'Oh Harry…forever.'

THE END.


End file.
